Broken
by daykestrel
Summary: Sequel to "Doesn't Mean Anything". Emma had proof of the mayor's guilt around Kathryn's disappearance but chose not to act on it. How does Regina feel about this? Swan Queen. Pre-Season 2.
1. Chapter 1

Sequel to "Doesn't Mean Anything". Emma had proof of the mayor's guilt around Kathryn's disappearance but chose not to act on it. How does Regina feel about this? Swan Queen.

_The request was to explore how Regina reacted after Emma had protected her, from Regina's point of view. I chose to write in second person to try to carry forward the mood created in "Doesn't Mean Anything". Hopefully I was able to sustain that._

_This story is rated M for sexual content, the occasional swear word, and for references to self-harming behavior._

xxx

She's still here.

She drifted off to sleep a few minutes ago, blonde curls spilling carelessly on the pillow, an arm thrown over her eyes. A thin sheet barely covers her nude body. There is a soft smile playing around the corners of her lips.

You've never let her hang around after the sex before. You wonder why you're letting her now.

You have the sudden urge to shake her awake and tell her to leave. To get out of your space, out of your bed, out of your house. _Now._

You need space to think.

And yet you find that you also want her to stay. Want her calming presence, want those safe arms around you again.

You hate indecision. And you hate weakness, especially in yourself.

Your jumbled thoughts drive you from the bed. Impatient hands tug on underwear, a pair of pants and a blouse. You're shaking. You can feel the anger bubbling up inside of you and you nurse it, fan the flames. The feeling is familiar, safe, and it makes you feel stronger. More in control.

You let the anger drive you from the room, long strides carrying you quickly out to the hall. You take care to pull the door firmly shut behind you. Henry's not due home from school for another hour or so, but it wouldn't do to have him find the sheriff in your bed.

In the kitchen you draw a glass from the cupboard. You need water.

Normally you drink bottled water. Expensive, only the best, and you keep your fridge well-stocked. But suddenly the Perrier feels pretentious, too good for what you have become. You turn your back on the fridge.

When you turn on the tap at the sink, the liquid that spills out is luke warm. You bite back your impatience and let it run, waiting for it to cool.

Your body is flushed, overheated from anger, embarrassment, and sex. You want the water cold.

Your mind returns to the woman sleeping upstairs. To her actions earlier in the day. She had proof of your guilt, maybe not enough to land you a jail term but certainly enough to indict you. To have you held on charges. To have your son taken away.

This has been your biggest fear from the moment she first turned up on your doorstep. The fear that you might lose Henry.

This is a very real threat that is amplified the longer she stays in town. It's the threat that keeps you awake at night, nervously plotting her downfall. And it's the threat that drives your nightmares, those horrible dreams in which there has been a natural disaster and you can't find your son, and then finally you do find him but he's living with the sheriff and he won't speak to you and now you're alone. So very alone.

You've been trying to mitigate this threat.

You've tried direct demands and menacing persuasion. You've tried your hand at skillful manipulation. And then, desperate, you've tried to use sex to keep her under your control.

But none of it seems to have worked, and you recognize that with her first real proof against you she's a bigger threat than ever.

And yet she has chosen not to act, at least not yet. Instead she has chosen to protect you. _Why?_

The resentment bubbles in your chest and your fingers tighten around the glass. You stare down at your white knuckles.

You were sloppy. She should never have found the shovel in the first place. And you certainly don't need to be protected. Especially not by her, the birth mother of your son.

You remember her arms holding you, rocking you like a child.

You remember crying. Sobbing, begging for forgiveness, for absolution. You remember the softness of her neck against your cheek and the warm way she looked into your eyes. You remember smiling at her. You remember the pathetic gratefulness you'd felt towards her.

_You're weak. You're a failure._ The words ring in your head, an echo of your childhood.

Your weakness, the embarrassment of your outburst and subsequent submission, twists your lips into a snarl. You lift your arm.

The glass shatters as it impacts the far wall. The sound is harsh, satisfying. The pieces of broken glass scatter wildly and loudly about the kitchen.

And then it's quiet.

You watch, captivated, as a transparent shard rocks gently on the counter, casting strange reflections in the weak sunlight before finally going still.

You shut off the water running in the sink.

Henry could hurt himself on the broken glass. You need to clean up the mess. You shake your head in an attempt to refocus.

First a broom and dustpan to capture the larger pieces, then the vacuum for any remaining splinters. You vacuum the floor wildly, then the counter, before storing the cleaning equipment neatly back in the closet. The broken glass tinkles in the garbage as you tie a knot in the top of the bag and carry it outside to the bin.

The broken evidence of your loss of control has been cleaned up. Erased. The tightness in your chest loosens ever so slightly.

The other evidence of your loss of control remains however, and you wonder how to rid yourself of the woman sleeping upstairs in your bed.

You're shaking, but you decide to blame it on low blood sugar. The sheriff found you at home on your lunch break, preparing to raid the fridge.

You never eat out. This was a rule of your mother's - never eat amongst the commoners.

And so the sheriff had found you at home in the middle of the day with her search warrant in hand. With her damned sympathetic eyes.

You open the refrigerator door and extract two containers with leftovers from last night's dinner. Spaghetti and a salad. The microwave hums softly as you claim a new glass from the cupboard. This time you choose the bottled water from the fridge. It's carbonated and the cap hisses pleasingly as you twist it off.

You stand at the island in the middle of your spacious kitchen, fork in hand, and attempt to eat your lunch. The first bite sticks in your throat, a hard lump that chokes you as you attempt to swallow it down. You set down the fork.

Your eyes catch a glint of light across the room. Your broom missed a piece of broken glass.

You walk over and scoop it up carefully, intending to toss it in the trash. But in your hand the glass is cool to the touch and you find yourself studying it. It's a narrow shard, nearly two inches long and wickedly sharp. Almost without thought you find your fist closing around the glass, squeezing tight.

The pain is welcome. Sharp and real.

It's not messy, like the pain you feel from loving your son. Like the pain you feel when you think of the woman upstairs.

No, this pain is clean. Honest.

You open your hand and marvel at the red blood pooling in your palm. Against the clear glass your blood is dark and beautiful. You admire the sight for moment before the disgust wells up in your chest once again.

_You're a failure. You're broken._

The shard of glass lands in the empty garbage can. You wash the blood from your palm with running water in the sink, then wrap your hand with a dish towel to stop the sluggish flow. Once you would have sealed the cut with little effort, but that power is no longer one that you command.

Out in the garage the shovel stands where you last saw it. Untouched. The broken corner makes you cringe at your own sloppiness. At your arrogance, your assumption that no one would be bold enough to question you.

You hide the shovel in the basement, buried under boxes of Henry's baby clothes. You will have someone dispose of it later.

Back in the house you pick up the phone and hit the speed dial. The voice on the other end sounds pathetically hopeful and your lip lifts involuntarily into a disgusted snarl.

"Sidney, I need you to go down to the hardware store and buy me a new shovel. Now!" you bark at him, pleased and slightly mollified by his immediate acquiescence.

You're almost as good at cleaning up messes as you are at making them.

And there's one more mess that needs cleaning.

You storm up the stairs and bang into the bedroom. She's still sleeping. The hand has fallen away from her face and her perfect features and milky skin can only belong to a princess.

Your good fist clenches the bottom of the sheet. With an abrupt tug, you whip the sheet from her body. She's lying before you, naked, and you glory in the feel of power it gives to stand above her, fully clothed, looking down on her body.

Her eyes blink open and she smiles up at you sleepily.

Your traitorous heart skips a beat in your chest. Your lips automatically start to lift in return, to smile back at her.

But you bite it down, force your expression to be hard. Cold. This woman is a weakness, and she needs to leave.

"Miss Swan, time to go." You keep your voice brittle, commanding. Brisk. In control.

The smile fades from her face.

The question in her eyes, the hurt, causes a painful tightness in your chest. But you ignore it.

You scoop her clothing from the floor and toss it in her direction. Then you stand, arms crossed, and watch as she dresses clumsily, scrambling into her clothes and tugging on her boots.

Only when her beautiful body is covered again do you have the strength to meet her eyes. Her grey-green eyes, looking at you with hurt and confusion. And resignation. Like perhaps she had expected this. Expected you to turn on her. Expected the proverbial kick in the shins after being nothing but kind.

You scoff at her hurt expression. She needs to learn that kindness will get her nowhere in life.

"Regina…" Her voice trails off. Those damned eyes are looking at you with hope. With tenderness. Probably best to put an end to that.

"Miss Swan, I said that it was time for you to go." You drum the fingers of your good hand impatiently.

You play this role so very well. The mayor. The queen, in control of her subjects.

"It was _fun_," you add a purposeful sneer to the word, tarnishing it, "but Henry will be home soon and it's time for you to leave."

The sheriff's gaze is shuttered now, guarded. She nods curtly.

"Oh, and don't bother returning with your pointless search warrant." You're on a roll now, the words flowing easily. "You'll find that what you _thought_ you saw was incorrect. And I _will_ lodge a complaint if you harass me at home again."

You don't bother to state who you'll be lodging the complaint with. It doesn't matter. She gets your point, loud and clear. The evidence is gone, covered up.

Her eyes narrow, and then she sighs in resignation.

_That's what you get for being nice, Miss Swan,_ you think to yourself.

As she brushes past you, she notices the dish towel still wrapped around your throbbing hand. She glances up at you, a question in her eyes.

You narrow your gaze and tuck your injured hand tightly under your armpit, effectively hiding it from prying eyes.

"_Good-bye_, Miss Swan." You lace your voice with all the coldness and contempt that you learned from your mother.

This finally does the trick. The sheriff shakes her head stiffly and strides out of the room. She bounds angrily down the stairs, boots clattering loudly on the hardwood. You follow at a more dignified pace, reaching the foyer just in time to see the door slam behind flying blonde hair.

You take a deep breath, trying to ease that painful tightness in your chest.

And then another deep breath, and another.

It doesn't help.

Your hand is throbbing and your chest aches. You look down at the blood seeping through the dish towel and your vision blurs.

You still haven't had lunch, haven't had anything substantial to eat today, and so you decide that it's hunger making your knees weak as you sink to the bottom step. Your head drops to your knees as the tears begin to fall.


	2. Chapter 2

You're prowling through the deserted sheriff's office.

The place is messy. Empty coffee cups are scattered around the room and a half-finished box of donuts is propped open on the desk. Randomly tossed file folders and untidy stacks of paper cover almost every flat surface, and your lip curls at the smell wafting from the open garbage can in the corner.

You make a mental note to speak to the blonde about your expectations for cleanliness.

Your eyes narrow as they fall on the empty jail cell. You recall your confrontation with Mary Margaret through the bars. She had looked more appealing locked up, less saintly somehow. You wish she were still there. Behind bars, held at your whim.

At the same time there is a small part of you, deep inside, that sighs in relief. You worry that you may have gotten in over your head with your latest scheme. Sometimes you feel tired of the manipulation, of coming up with new lies and new stories. Sometimes you just feel tired.

Kathryn was released against your will. While a large part of you is angry to have been disobeyed, another part of you is relieved. The need to control life and death has become exhausting and you rejoice, very quietly, that you don't have yet another death on your hands.

Besides, you're in a good mood.

You're breathing a little easier today after convincing yourself that you're not going to lose Henry. The incriminating evidence has been removed, and few discreet phone calls earlier this morning have confirmed that no judge would take custody of a child away from an established good household and give it to a woman with no fixed address.

Especially when that woman had signed a closed adoption.

Your legal counsel has informed you that you could actually sue to have the sheriff removed from town, and you could go for emotional damage to your relationship with your son while you're at it.

The case probably wouldn't stick, but the thought of going on the offensive makes you slightly giddy. You've decided not to act just yet but to retain the legal action as insurance, a hidden ace up your sleeve.

And besides, with Graham gone you need another warm body to satisfy your needs.

So now you have a few loose ends to tie up and then life can get back to normal. Or the new normal anyways, which these days seems to consist of keeping the mundane little town running, fighting with Henry, fighting with the sheriff, and having rough sex with the sheriff.

No more soft smiles or gooey eyes. Just sex.

You smile, pleased.

Booted footsteps echo in the hall and you settle yourself comfortably against the sheriff's desk, fixing that confident smile even more firmly on your lips.

When she rounds the corner and discovers you lounging in her office, the first look that crosses her face is one of pleased anticipation. She actually looks happy to see you and you have to prevent yourself from answering her warm smile with one of your own.

_Just sex_, you remind yourself sternly.

She catches herself and the smile drops from her face. Her expression is guarded as she grinds out a question. "What do you want?"

Her attitude borders on rudeness, but you're so eager to carry out your plan and be done with this whole mess that you choose to ignore it for now. Sliding from the desk, you move into her space with the soft swagger to your hips that you know serves to draw attention.

You inform her that you've found a confession for her, the rehearsed words flowing easily.

Sidney, actually managing not to screw things up for once, bursts into the office. As he stumbles through his confession, the sheriff's expression changes from one of confusion to one of outright incredulity.

"A word in the hall, please." Her voice is strangled with barely restrained frustration. She grabs your arm, no doubt wrinkling your perfectly pressed jacket, and drags you behind her out of the office.

In the hallway you snatch your arm back and assume an air of indignation.

She rolls her eyes at your huffiness and you feel a flash of proud affection. Most people are completely intimidated by you, and if they're not, it's only because they hate you too much to be scared.

But you don't let your approval show, of course. Instead you merely cross your arms and raise an eyebrow, daring her to continue.

And she does. She lists your perceived shortcomings. She calls you a sociopath. She calls you cruel. As you trade words, the smirk remains firmly fixed on your face. Her emotions are raw, close to the surface, and you wonder if it's professional or personal hurt fueling her outrage.

You thrive on this. The heated banter, the rush of adrenaline you get when you know you're winning the game against a worthy opponent.

She's beautiful when she's angry.

But then she breaks the rules. With one simple sentence she changes the game, and you're not winning anymore.

"I'm taking back my son."

Silence follows her announcement and the words ring in your head, repeating themselves over and over.

_I'm taking back my son._

The lawyer had told you this couldn't happen, but now you feel doubt. The determination in her face informs you that she'll find a way, legal or not, to take back the child she birthed ten years ago.

_I'm taking back my son._

You can feel yourself cracking, can feel the expression melting on your face, trying to pull into something else. Something devastated. Something hurt.

You duck your head and turn away, doing your best to project an offended demeanor. You feel vaguely betrayed, and startlingly terrified.

She catches your arm again and tugs you back to face her. Ducks her head and tries to look into your eyes.

But you won't let her. You can feel your eyes pooling with traitorous moisture and you're not going to do this in front of her. Not again.

"Sheriff Swan, let me go!" you demand. Your voice comes out as little more than a harsh whisper.

"No Regina, I'm not going to let you go," she replies firmly. "What's wrong with you? How the hell did you get so broken?"

The words cut straight to your heart, shattering your tenuous hold on control.

_How did you get so broken? _

_You're broken. You're not good enough. You're a failure._

Words that you'd heard your entire childhood. They bubble up inside of you and a sob escapes your throat. You clench your arms to your belly, trying to hold the pain inside.

_I'm taking back my son._

Your knees buckle and suddenly she's there, catching you. An arm under your elbow, another around your back. You shrug her off, push her harshly away.

Spots dance in front of your eyes as your vision fades to black. All you can feel is the pain in your chest. It's overwhelming. Too much. You can't breathe.

_I'm taking back my son. How did you get so broken? I'm taking back my son._

So you have failed in this too. Failed to be a good mother. Failed to provide enough love for your child. Failed to keep him safe, protected.

_How did you get so broken?_

_I'm taking back my son._

You're vaguely aware of clenching your fist and bringing it down to connect with something solid. You repeat this motion, again and again, as if by doing so you can drive out the failure, the pain.

You hear a gasp, and realize belatedly that it's your own. And then, as if from far away, you hear a voice. It's speaking your name.

_Regina. Regina, it's okay. I've got you. Regina._

"Regina."

Your lungs expand, sucking in air. Your eyes snap open, hurtling you abruptly back to the present.

You're sitting on the floor, knees drawn to your chest. The sheriff is crouched in front of you, cheekbones popping out in a face that is contorted with concern. You blink up at her.

"What?" The word is shaky, raw. Nowhere near your usual command of the language.

You try again. "Yes, Sheriff?" This time it comes out more smoothly, slightly husky but still icy cold. Much better.

Instead of drawing away, she moves closer. Her eyes dart over your face, down to your fists which are still clenching your knees tightly to your body, and then back to your eyes.

Her hand reaches out to smooth the hair back from your forehead. You jerk your head away and she startles, but then her hand returns to tuck the hair behind your ear. For some reason you find yourself allowing this.

You take another deep, shaky breath and glance around. Somehow she has maneuvered you into the tiny kitchenette. You're tucked around the corner, out of sight of the hallway, and for this you are pathetically grateful.

Her hand falls away from your face as you loosen your grip on your knees, stretch your arms and legs. You gasp as several points of sharp pain suddenly make themselves known. You look down in confusion.

Your leg is throbbing and your palm aches.

She cups your fist in her hand. The cut has broken open again and there is blood dripping sluggishly onto the linoleum. She places her other hand under your elbow and wordlessly helps you to stand.

Now on your feet, you lean against the counter and kick off your heels. You've lost the height advantage, but your legs are shaking too hard to have sort of dignity in the desperate shoes. With your good hand you reach down to straighten your skirt.

You let her draw you the two painful steps to the tiny sink. Your chest feels numb, and you watch in a detached manner as she turns on the sputtering tap and rinses the blood from your palm. Her touch is soft, surprisingly gentle after the anger and hurt in her eyes just minutes before. After her pointed, determined declaration.

She pats your hand dry with a paper towel and then draws a first aid kit from one of the cupboards. Her long fingers are efficient with the bandaging. While she patches you up, she seems to deliberately maintain a physical connection to you – a hand on your arm, fingers against your wrist, her knee brushing your thigh.

You wonder what she thinks will happen if she lets you go. Will you float away? Or perhaps dissolve into another puddle on the floor?

Once the bandage is secure she wets a paper towel and gently wipes down your face. It's something you used to do for Henry when he was sick and the caring nature of the gesture snaps you back to reality.

You are in the kitchen with the sheriff, who just minutes ago threatened to take away the only thing you love. Sidney is still down the hall, waiting like a patient dog for you to return and pat him on the head before he gets arrested for kidnapping.

You shake your head sharply and attempt to take an abrupt step away. A sudden sharp pain as you put weight on your leg causes you to stumble. You hiss in surprise and grab at the counter, and then the sheriff's damned hands are there again, catching you, steadying you.

_What the fuck now?_

She gestures at your thigh. "It's probably bruised. You hit it pretty hard."

You stare at her in confused frustration.

And then you remember. You remember lashing out with your fist. You remember the sharp pain each time you had connected with your thigh. How it had felt good, real. Something to focus on.

You glare at her automatically. No one should witness you in this state of weakness.

_You're a failure. You're broken._

To your dismay, she doesn't fold under your hard stare. She does however move away, back to the first aid kit. This time she draws out a bottle of aspirin. The pills rattle loudly as she shakes two of them into her palm. She grabs a drinking glass from the cupboard. The tap sputters as it dispenses water into the glass.

She hands you the aspirin first, then the glass. The water is warm in your mouth, faintly metallic. But you drink it nonetheless.

She nods in approval, then gestures vaguely towards the hall.

"I'm just gonna, you know. Get rid of Sidney."

You want to ask her what she's going to do with Sidney. Arrest him? Put him in jail? The man is like a poor misguided puppy, hoping for a scrap of your affection but receiving nothing but hard boots instead.

His hopeful face flashes before your eyes and wave of nausea sweeps your body. You tighten your grip on the counter again, swallowing rapidly. You look up at her, hopeless and confused. You can't seem to bring yourself under control.

_You're a failure. You're broken._

She must see the concern in your face because she shakes her head. A small smile twists on the corner of her mouth, but her eyes remain sad. "I'm going to tell him to go home. Unless Kathryn wants to press charges, he's just going home."

You nod, absurdly grateful.

She disappears around the corner and you attempt to straighten up. Things are fine as long as you don't put any weight on your leg.

You're wondering how you're going to get down the hall and into your car when the sheriff pops her head back into the kitchenette.

"He's gone. You ready?" she asks. You're not sure what you're supposed to be ready for, and the confusion must show in your face because she smiles again and this time it reaches her eyes.

You're feeling mentally slow, sluggish, and it irritates you. Her smile irritates you. You try for a scowl, but it just makes her smile grow larger.

She scoops your shoes off the floor and then ducks under your arm, taking most of the weight on your bad side. This is ridiculous, and you want to be outraged but you find that you just don't have the energy.

Instead you limp along beside her. For the moment you are defeated. You need her assistance. She helps you hobble down the hall and into her office where she settles you into the chair behind her desk.

She points out the phone and pushes a pad of legal paper and a pen at you. The pen is a garish red and has an annoyingly cute baseball mitt emblazoned on it. You roll your eyes.

She drops the box of donuts and a bottle of Pepsi on the desk. Your nose wrinkles involuntarily in disgust and another grin splits her face.

"I have a few calls to follow up on." Her face softens. "You can finish up your work day here. It will be quiet, I'll lock the door on my way out so no one can bother you. I'll be back at five, and I can help you get home."

You nod curtly. You purposefully don't say thank-you.

She's wearing a green shirt and it makes her eyes glow. Your force your gaze away and pick up the ugly pen in your good hand.

You think she's going to leave, but she surprises you yet again by swooping towards you instead.

You're in pain, you can't move away. All you can do is make a low noise of disgust in your throat as she plants a kiss on your forehead. You swat at her ineffectively as she dances out of the way. She chuckles and strides towards the door, throwing a wave over her shoulder before disappearing from sight.

You clench your fist and the pen snaps in your hand.

You drop the broken pen quickly, delighting in the black ink that pools onto the surface of the cheap desk. Almost as satisfying as the red of blood.

You slide the chair carefully to the left, away from the ink, and extract another pen from the desk drawer. This one is plain, black and smooth in your hand. You nod in satisfaction and settle down to work.

You have no cell phone. It's sitting in your purse, back in your office.

Picking up the desk phone, you dial your secretary to tell her that you're working off-site for the rest of the afternoon.

xxx

At four forty-five you say a curt good-bye to the parks department worker on the other end of the phone and place the hand piece firmly back on the receiver.

You gather up your papers, notes mostly, plus the list of phone numbers your secretary had rattled off for you. You don't have your briefcase, so after a moment of deliberation you roll the papers into a tube and stuff them into your jacket pocket.

Taking a deep breath, you push yourself into a standing position. Spots swim before your eyes and you gasp at the sharp pain. You bite your lip and ride it out, and shortly it recedes quickly to a dull background ache. The aspirin is helping. You flex your leg a few times, trying to get the blood flowing.

There's no way in hell you're going to wait for the sheriff with her damned sympathetic eyes and helpful hands to come take you home. Instead you hobble carefully out of the office, making sure to re-lock the door from the inside before you pull it shut behind you.

Seated in your car, you breathe a sigh of relief. You start the engine and pull quickly away from the curb to head for home.

Behind you, in the sheriff's office on her desk beside the drying ink spill, is a to-do list.

You smile.


	3. Chapter 3

_Interlude - Emma_

At five minutes after five you're trotting down the hall that leads to your office. You're late, and you hope the mayor isn't going to give you an earful about punctuality.

But if she did, at least it would mean that she was okay again. Back to her normal, acerbic self.

The fear in the mayor's eyes earlier was startlingly real. You were shocked by the vulnerability, the pain.

You've seen panic attacks before, but never ones where the person having them was completely unaware of their surroundings. The mayor was clearly elsewhere, and when she had curled her fist and begun pounding on her own body, you realized suddenly that this was an old hurt.

The mayor is indeed broken, just like you'd accused. Someone broke her a long time ago and you're startled to find yourself wanting to punch the lights out of whoever damaged this beautiful, terrible, fragile woman.

Your own hurt, your own anger, your own frustration, they had all melted away in the face of the other woman's torment.

You wanted to help her.

Is that stupid? Are you crazy?

She's already broken the law. Kidnapped a woman, placed the blame first on one person and then another. And who knows what else in the past.

She's manipulative. Mean, hard, and cruel. Frustrating. Arrogant.

But the pain in her eyes when you'd threatened to take her son was real.

And you finally realize for the first time that she truly loves Henry. Fully and completely. And if she loves him, that means that she's not all bad. Not evil.

Just broken.

You're startled to find yourself wondering if you can fix her. Mend her hurts. If you can go any further without breaking yourself too.

You burst through the door to your office, an apology dying on your lips as you realize that the office is empty.

Your desk is impeccably tidy. The phone is lined up with the edge of the desk, and beside that lie the pad of legal paper and a black pen, perfectly squared up. The file folders have been neatly stacked. The box of donuts is in the garbage can.

The startling exception to the cleanliness is a stain of sticky black ink that has pooled like blood on the surface of the desk. You notice that your favorite Boston Red Sox pen has been snapped cleanly in half, the source of the spill.

Your brows draw together and you move towards the stain, trying to figure out what must have happened.

As you get closer you notice that there is writing on the legal pad. It's a to-do list, scrawled in the mayor's bold, pretentious handwriting.

_ Clean the office, dispose of all garbage.  
File the property theft and general mischief files. Properly.  
Call Mrs. Smith. She's hearing noises in the basement again.  
Clean up your desk.  
Take out the garbage.  
No more donuts._

You smile.


	4. Chapter 4

_Both Regina and Emma in this chapter.  
_

_Thanks for the reviews, and thanks for sticking with me!  
_

_xxx  
_

_Regina_

The interdepartmental mail is delivered twice a day by a young man on a bicycle. He leaves the mail with your secretary. Few people are bold enough to brave your office, and the pimple-cheeked teenager isn't one of them.

Your secretary is out at a late lunch when you hear the familiar whap of envelopes landing on her desk.

Pushing to your feet, you limp into the outer office. The swollen knot on your thigh is fading, but it still stiffens up when you've been sitting for too long.

You grind your teeth at the last twinges of lingering pain. You're ready for it to be done and gone. You haven't taken any pain killers since that first day; you don't want anything to dull your senses.

And perhaps you deserve the pain.

Mail in hand, you settle back into your leather desk chair with a heavy sigh. There are three interdepartmental envelopes and a couple of white, legal envelopes addressed to the town.

You start on the ratty beige envelopes that the town uses to send things back and forth. No stamps required. You've been paying the same pimple-faced boy to cart these envelopes, or ones just like them, around town for over twenty-eight years.

The first two envelopes contain memos from the city maintenance department. You toss them into an inbox on the corner of your desk.

The string around the two paper buttons on the third envelope is wound tightly, around and around. It really only takes one good twist of string to hold the envelopes shut and you sigh in annoyance at the overzealous closure.

When the envelope finally yields you're left holding a single sheet of paper.

You blink in surprise.

It's the to-do list that you left on the sheriff's desk a few days ago. All items on the list have been checked off, with the exception of the last one. The words "No more donuts" have been crossed out and beside them, in a nearly illegible hand, is a scrawling, "Not a chance!"

Your eyebrows lift as you consider this development. Your fingers drum on the page.

Perhaps you should ascertain if the sheriff has truly followed your instructions?

Yes, that's most certainly what you should do.

Your desk chair rolls back quietly as you stand and flex your leg. With a firm nod, you stride as evenly as you can out the office, thoughts of the troublesome blonde filling your head.

xxx

_Emma_

The hulking form of the flakey old CRT monitor dominates the spare desk. It's attached to an ancient computer that hums and whirs and clicks all day long.

When you first accepted the job as deputy you were shocked by the lack of technology provided. How could anyone work without a computer or smart phone these days?

Over the past few months you've come to realize that policing a small town has very little to do with the internet, and a lot more to do with being a presence in the townspeople's lives. With being in the right place at the right time. Moving the kids on who are about to vandalize a storefront. Chasing the neighbor's cat out of Mrs. Smith's basement. Again.

But today you need the internet. There's a contaminant leaking into the river and you need a source. You need a world broader than this little town.

The dial-up modem is slow. Pathetically slow. You slam your hands down on the keyboard in frustration.

The desk shakes. The monitor shakes. The screen goes black.

_Damn it_.

You reach out and smack the side of the monitor in a gesture you'd seen Graham perform many times. Your hand stings but the monitor gives no response.

You stand and make your way around to the back of the desk and begin jiggling the cords. You talk nicely to the monitor, sweet baby talk. Try to coax it back to life.

The sugary comments give way to snarky ones. Finally a long string of swear words tumbles from your mouth and you deliver a sharp kick to the computer tower under the desk. The machine rattles twice and gives a loud pop.

Then all is silent.

You look up from the dead machine and realize that your life has just gotten even worse.

The mayor is standing in the door, a thunderous expression on her face. No doubt she has just witnessed your monumental loss of patience. You sigh, straighten up, and run a frustrated hand through your hair.

"Can I help you, Madam Mayor?" You try to remain neutral, polite. The words are a struggle.

This woman has the worst timing ever. Or perhaps the best timing, depending on your point of view.

"Yes, Sheriff Swan." Her voice is deadly cold. "You may explain to me why you just destroyed city property. I trust you realize that the cost of a replacement will be coming out of your pay check?"

"Replacement?" The words choke on the way out of your mouth. "Good luck replacing _that!_"

You point an accusatory finger at the dead machine.

"_That_," you continue, "is older than Henry. That piece of _crap_," and you hate how your voice wavers, so rush on to try to cover it up.

"That piece of crap hasn't worked since before I arrived here. It is a _waste of_ _public money_ for me to spend time trying to get my work done on that _beast_!"

The mayor pushes off the door frame and strides towards you in a slightly broken walk. You realize that she's still in pain, but any sympathy you might have felt for her is short lived.

A few days ago you nursed her through a panic attack. Kept her from doing serious damage to herself. Steered everyone else away to protect her precious reputation.

And how has she repaid you?

She's criticized your work. Broken your lucky pen. And she's been extra bitchy to you ever since.

As she steps into your space your nostrils flare unconsciously at the faint smell of apples, soap and expensive perfume that washes over you. She's beautiful up close, smooth skin, strong cheek bones and dark, shining eyes. You hate yourself for noticing.

"Sheriff Swan." She shakes her head, sighs, and continues. "This is precisely why you have a budget."

"Budget?" you repeat feeling suddenly unsure. You take a half-step backwards, away from the red lips that are quirked into an infuriating smile.

"Yes, _budget._" She draws out the syllables as if speaking to a child. She presses forward again, back into your space.

"Perhaps you know what that is?" she continues. "Anything your office requires may be purchased out of your annual budget. Including computers." She looks pointedly at the dead workstation and sniffs loudly.

She's so close that a wisp of her hair brushes your cheek. You struggle not to shut your eyes.

"Oh."

_Brilliant retort, Swan._

You wonder why you always wind up feeling stupid around this woman. You think she must do it on purpose.

Your heart is beating hard in your chest. You hate her. You want to kiss her.

The mayor levels one last condescending look in your direction and then steps past you. You take a deep, shaky breath and try to regain your composure.

You expect her to take her leave, but instead she appears to be prowling the room. Inspecting it.

A long finger swipes the surface of the filing cabinet. The drawers are opened and she rifles pointedly through the files, nodding grudgingly when she locates the section for property theft. The next stop is the garbage can, and you're glad that that the janitorial staff were here last night because the only thing in the black plastic bag is a used tissue.

Finally the mayor turns again and meets your eyes. The corner of her lip twitches.

And that's the moment when you lose it.

The frustration and humiliation bubble over and you find yourself striding forward, meeting her head on.

At first you think you're going to hit her, going to wipe the smarmy look clear off her face. You've protected this woman. You've held her while she's cried. You've had the most beautiful sex with her. And this is how she treats you?

This is bullshit.

You raise your hand. A flicker of something flashes through her eyes. Fear? Regret?

When your hand connects with her cheekbone, the gesture is much gentler than either of you had anticipated. Your fingers rest softly against her smooth skin.

And then you're kissing her. Hard.

She freezes. After a moment her hands come up to grasp the collar of your jacket. You think she's about to push you away, but instead she pulls you closer. She bites your lip, drawing blood, and you hiss in surprise. You draw back to stare into her eyes, torn.

For a moment her gaze is smug, predatory. And then there's a strange glint in her eyes. Something that looks almost like affection.

That's all you need to see.

You're kissing her again, urgently. And god help you but she's kissing you back. She's kissing you like she means it. She swallows the moan that escapes your throat and pulls you closer.

Later, you remember pulling away from her to slam the office door shut. You remember the desperate stagger that brought you back into her arms. You remember how she ripped your shirt off, the gentle patter of loose buttons hitting the linoleum floor.

You remember her teeth on your shoulder, your breast, your collar bone. Biting, nipping. Pain and pleasure, wrapped in one.

You remember the moment it turned softer. Tender. When her fingers changed from claws to sweet caresses.

You remember kissing the half-healed cut on her palm and the bruises on her thigh. You remember the tears you thought you glimpsed in her eyes before she clenched them shut and drew you up her body to capture your lips once again.

You remember her taste, salty-sweet, hot on your tongue. And you remember the sound of her crying out, begging you for more.

After she's tugged her clothing back over sweaty skin, after she's nodded a curt good-bye and strode from the room without meeting your eyes, you get down on your hands and knees to look for your buttons. You find all but one of them.

You remember the moment you pushed her body over the edge. You remember how her eyes had flown open to meet yours. Deep and vulnerable. Beautiful.

You wonder how far you'll go for this woman, how much abuse you'll take. You wonder if you'll ever win. You wonder if you've already lost.

You wonder why this feels like it might be okay. You wonder why it feels like it might be worth it.


	5. Chapter 5

_Regina_

The petitioner sitting on the other side of your desk has been speaking non-stop for the past half an hour. Despite his enthusiasm, you managed to lose track of what he's asking for a good ten minutes ago.

Better sidewalks? Or no sidewalks at all, reclaiming the space for wider vehicle lanes?

You're indifferent, really.

It's that time in the four-year political cycle where budgets are reviewed and money is allocated for projects over the upcoming years. Thank goodness you've never run an election, because then you might actually be forced to care about these endless petitions.

Over the past few weeks you've been badgered with dozens of requests and suggestions, everything from creating more green space in the center of town to bulldozing a portion of the park land to build condos.

As if anyone would want to buy a condo in Storybrooke.

The man sitting before you was insignificant in the other world, and you dismiss him as insignificant in this world too. He works for public facilities, driving the garbage truck that traverses the town twice a week.

That's right. He's looking for safer spaces to pull his truck off the road.

You grit your teeth and force a pleasant smile to your face, nodding every so often as he gestures intently to the rough diagrams he has drawn up. You press your knee into a sharp metal ridge under your desk. The discomfort keeps you awake, keeps you looking focused.

He slides his papers off your desk. You start to rise from your seat, ready to thank him for his suggestions, but he draws another sheaf of papers from his bag and continues with his dialogue.

Sliding back down, you press your knee even harder into the metal. You're going to have another bruise, but you can't bring yourself to care.

Your mind wanders.

You haven't seen the sheriff since you'd slunk from her office nearly a week ago. In fact you've been careful to avoid her, working some part days from home with the excuse of needing to hole up somewhere quiet to work on the upcoming budget. On other days, like today, you've booked your calendar full with appointments. You're purposefully making yourself unavailable to the local law enforcement.

However you have continued with the to-do lists. They seem to be the most logical, efficient way of communicating with the frustrating woman. No arguing. No talking back. No distractions.

And no grey eyes boring into yours, asking questions you don't want to answer.

The lists have been returned to you, one after the other, tucked inside the ratty interdepartmental envelopes. The pages of tidy check marks make you feel safe, in control.

The latest list arrived this morning and sits on the corner of your desk.

Under the pretense of leaning forward to view the man's sketches, your eyes slide over to the lined paper. There are only three items on the list.

_Investigate the source of the recent graffiti in the school yard. Take whatever steps necessary to ensure it doesn't happen again._

_Provide me with a report of your findings regarding the river contamination._

_Enclose this envelope with only ONE loop of string around the fastener._

The envelope had arrived on your desk this morning enclosed with a single loop of string, and you had smiled in satisfaction. You seem to have finally found a way to communicate with this woman that retains your authority without yelling, fist fights or blackmail. Her easy compliance with your lists makes you tingle with glee.

Stacked underneath the sheet of legal paper is an eight page print-out of information on the river contamination. You were just about to review the information when this insignificant man had wandered into your office, sketches in hand. You vaguely recall telling your secretary to agree to this appointment, and now you quietly curse yourself.

Surely the river contamination is more important, isn't it? You should be reviewing the sheriff's report, not listening to this drivel.

You settle back in your chair again and reach under the desk. Your fingers find the sharp metal and saw back and forth, harder and harder each time. The metal is beginning to chafe. You wonder if you will soon rub your fingers raw.

The man in front of you unearths a third stack of papers and pushes a lock of grey hair out of his eyes. It looks like you're going to be here for a while.

You regret that your position as mayor requires the respect of the people. You may not hold elections, but you're always aware of the fact that if you push them too far they do have the power to oust you under the rules of this country you now live in.

It's a regret, because as a queen you would have been able to dismiss this insignificant man before he had even set foot in your door.

You wish your secretary lived in this century. If she did, you could send her a discreet text and ask her to interrupt with some sort of made-up emergency. You eye your phone desperately. There's no one else you can think of to call for help.

You're about to invent your own emergency when a blonde head pops in the doorway. The sheriff is about the only person who would enter your office uninvited. Usually this irritates you to no end, but today you breathe a sigh of relief.

Her eyes widen as she sees that you have company. She cringes comically, waves an apology, and starts to withdraw. You spring from your chair, startling the man in front of you, and signal her back.

"My apologies Mr. Jones, I have another appointment."

The sheriff's face registers surprise, and you make what you hope is a discreet gesture. _Play along._

She nods, a tiny smirk forming on her otherwise serious face, and steps into the room.

You glance back at the man and his drawings. He looks like he's about to launch into another explanation of the importance of garbage pickup to the health of the town. Time to interrupt.

"Thank-you for your input," you state firmly. "If you leave your diagrams with me, I'll be sure to consider what you've said."

He nods, hands you his papers, and thanks you enthusiastically. As he trots from the room you scoop his papers into a drawer. The bottom one. They'll sit in that drawer for a few months, until the budget is set, and then you'll clean them out, straight into the recycling.

You turn to the sheriff and give her what you hope is a reasonably neutral smile.

"Sheriff Swan, what can I do for you?"

She saunters up to your desk and drops a piece of paper in front of you. It's a note, a parody of the lists you've been sending her, but there's only a single item written beside a large square check box.

_Eat lunch._

You're immediately alarmed by the personal nature of the words.

"What is the meaning of this?" you demand. Once again she has changed the game on you. This is not professional at all. You level your best glare in her direction, but as always it seems to have no effect on the frustrating woman.

She shrugs. "I notice you've been working long hours. It's almost two o'clock." She gestures at her watch, lifts her shoulders again in a casual gesture.

"You need to eat," she continues bluntly.

You notice the brown take-out bag in her hands only as she leans over to deposit it on your desk. She's careful to avoid placing it on any papers, and for that at least you're grateful.

The familiarity in the gesture annoys you however, and you lean back in your chair, arms crossed. Normally you would have a scathing reply, but this, this is so far out of the realm of your consideration that you're stunned speechless.

Do you yell? Throw the food back in her face? Accuse her of stalking you?

What on earth is the correct response here?

She can't seem to look at you, her eyes darting from your desk to the door, then back to your desk again. You see her gaze linger on the list she sent back in the mail this morning and you find yourself wishing that you'd tucked it away.

Angry at your own discomfort, at the fact you feel the need to explain yourself, the defensive words tumble from your mouth. "I was just reviewing your report before my appointment."

She nods and meets your eyes. "Any questions?"

"Not yet." You shake your head firmly, dismissively. "I will let you know when I'm done."

She nods again in acknowledgement and shuffles her feet. After a moment she gestures to the door. "I guess I gotta go."

You notice that her hands are shaking. Is she nervous? You wish you could think of a way to take advantage of that fact, but you're not fast enough. After a small pause she turns and slips from your office.

Oh well, next time.

You push the brown bag to the side of your desk with a single, distasteful finger.

Turning to your day planner, you're pleased to discover that your next appointment has been cancelled. You call your secretary to have her postpone the rest of your meetings this afternoon as well. Time to get some real work done.

You settle back in your chair and pick up the report on the river contamination.

xxx

The paper bag sits untouched on your desk. Your eyes flit over it occasionally before returning to the work in front of you.

The sheriff was right, you had skipped lunch today and around three thirty your stomach beings to rumble in a most annoying fashion. Your eyes return to linger on the bag for a few long moments, and then you huff in annoyance. You should just throw it away and be done with it.

You pick up the bag and carry it to the trash, but can't resist peeking in before you dispose of it.

It looks like a sandwich and soda. Your mouth waters.

You hesitate.

Just who does the sheriff think she is? Lecturing you to eat lunch! Has she been watching you? Stalking you? Preposterous.

_What if the food is poisoned?_

That thought makes you snort in amusement. Poisoning food was your thing; you don't think the sheriff has it in her.

The ring of your cell phone makes you jump. You hurry back to your desk, set the bag of food hastily down beside you and answer up the phone.

It's Henry, calling to tell you he's made it home safely. These phone calls are a requirement and there's no joy in his voice when he speaks to you. When you ask him how his day went, he gives you a curt response and asks if he can go now.

You dismiss him and hang up, feeling the hurt deep in your chest.

There was a time when he would chatter on to you after school, telling you in excruciating detail what had happened during his day. His stories were always muddled, hard to follow, and often you had expressed annoyance at his lack of clarity. His chattering had irritated you and you had a tendency cut him off, shut him down.

You'd just wanted quiet.

Now you feel regret. You wish that you'd encouraged him to keep talking to you. You wish he still wanted to share things with you, to have you as part of his life. You'd give anything to hear that perky chatter again.

Feeling defeated, you slump into your chair, but spring to your feet almost immediately. You pace to the far side of the office, then back again. You feel caged. You don't know how to fix this.

You keep a small knife in your desk for opening envelopes. The handle of the knife is comforting in your palm. You want to hurt someone. You want to hurt yourself.

Tears sting your eyes.

You hate feeling hopeless. Frustrated.

_Broken._

With great care you replace the knife in your desk drawer. Your eyes fall on the brown bag of food again. You draw it to you, reach in. The soda comes out first, then the sandwich.

You open the wrapping carefully, wondering what you'll find inside. Turkey, bacon, lettuce and tomato. Three slices of bread. Oozing mayonnaise. It's a clubhouse.

You wonder what the sheriff was thinking. You never eat this kind of food. It's completely decadent and not particularly healthy.

You start to wrap it up again, but decide to take a small bite. Just to remind yourself why you don't eat things like this.

The first mouthful is heavenly. The sandwich is still slightly warm, and the toasted bread and crunchy bacon contrast perfectly with the soft turkey breast and dripping tomato. You moan in delight.

The first half of the sandwich is gone before you realize it.

You pick up the soda and take a sip.

_Root beer? Really, sheriff? _

For some reason it makes you smile.

You finish the sandwich and dispose of the wrapping. The root beer stays on your desk and you sip at it idly as you finish your afternoon. Your belly feels full, your body warm and content.

You're in a much better mood, and in fact you're looking forward to going home to Henry. Maybe you can fix him one of his favorite meals for dinner.

The straw rattles in the bottom of the empty cup as you suck up the last bits of melted ice and soda. You look at the cup regretfully, almost wishing there was more liquid inside. With a shrug, you toss the cup in the trash.

You're turning off the lights, about to leave, when your eyes fall on the note the sheriff had deposited on your desk alongside the bag of food. Thoughtfully, you pick up a pen and place a large check mark in the box beside your action item. _Lunch eaten, check._

You add one more word, then slide the paper into one of the big beige envelopes. You print the sheriff's name on the outside, replace the pen in its holder, and tuck envelope under your arm.

Gathering your jacket, purse and car keys, you shut the lights and close your office door behind you. Your secretary has already gone home for the day and so you drop the envelope into the out box on her desk.

You stride from the room, not looking back.

As you drive home, your mind wanders to the word you'd added to the sheriff's note. The appropriate response to her gesture.

_Thanks._


	6. Chapter 6

It's Friday night, sometime after dinner. You're at home in your office, seated comfortably in your leather desk chair, flipping through some printouts.

There's an empty wine glass on the desk beside you. As you read, you scratch absently at the healing skin on the palm of your hand. The new skin is pink and perfect. And it itches. Constantly.

The itch has become an annoying companion these past few days, and you seem to have developed a habit of working at the new skin, rubbing it.

Henry is at a sleep over. He seems to be doing everything he can to avoid being at home recently, including attending a sleep over at the house of a boy he doesn't particularly like. The boy's mother is rather intimidated by you, so despite your misgivings you've deemed it safe and allowed him the privilege.

But you're not thinking about Henry at the moment.

The police records on one Miss Emma Swan should have been sealed as they are from when she was a minor, but you've managed to wrangle a copy of them anyways.

You should have personally gone through these records in the first place. Sidney's investigation on the sheriff was virtually useless, and you shake your head in disappointment. There was so much more to find, if he had only dug a little deeper.

Charges of possession. Public indecency. Mischief.

Assault with a weapon.

You scan down the page, looking for more information about that last one. You do _not_ want a dangerous woman around your son.

What you find makes you pause. Emma Swan, at age sixteen, had assaulted her foster father with a kitchen knife. The report mentions that the girl had alleged that her foster father was sexually harassing her, but the official writing the report had dismissed the allegations as a troubled girl trying to get attention.

You know all too well what it feels like to be a young woman trying to fend off the unwelcome advances of an older man.

Shaking off the melancholy thoughts, you stuff that last one to the bottom of the pile. What sits on the top are the various charges of possession of illegal substances.

_Perfect._

You run through the mental list of your sources in the outside world, debating the best method for obtaining illegal drugs. Discretely, of course.

There is a plan forming in your mind, and you sit back in your chair to let it develop. If you were to plant drugs on the sheriff, you could arrange for some sort of investigation. Maybe if you mention that your son came to you complaining about the woman's erratic behavior in his presence?

You wonder if there's a substance you can obtain with which you can lace her food for a few weeks. Build it up in her body. Then any blood or urine tests would be further proof against her. With her past record she would be condemned easily.

This is a better plan than initiating legal action. If you sue, there's always the possibility that she could counter-sue. You might wind up in court, in a drawn-out custody battle. She might wind up with visitation rights.

The thought of the sheriff paying child support and picking up Henry every second weekend makes you cringe.

No, this is a better plan, one with a more desirable outcome. No judicial system would award any form of custody or visitation rights to an addict.

You nod, pleased.

You almost regret this plot. Things have been relatively smooth with the sheriff these past few days and the town feels more functional than it has in a long time. But you can't trust her, not after her threat. No matter how many nice gestures she makes, she has still threatened to take your son away. You have to act.

But you don't know much about the substances of this world so you rise from your chair, intending to climb the stairs to Henry's room to borrow his laptop for a little research.

As your foot connects with the bottom step there is a knock on your front door. You jump, startled, and your hand flies to your chest.

Your first thought is that something has happened to Henry. Your second thought is that it's Henry at the door, knocking to be let in because he's forgotten his key. Again.

You rush to the door and fling it open, expecting to see your son on the other side. The chastising words die in your throat when you realize that the person standing on your front step is not Henry.

It's the sheriff, shuffling on awkward feet, hands stuffed in the back pockets of her jeans.

You rock back on your heels, cross your arms and raise an eyebrow. _Well?_

She shuffles some more. Shrugs. Mumbles something inane about reports of a prowler in the neighborhood. Wanting to ensure that you're all right.

You spread your arms and smirk. Yes, you're just fine.

The move causes your chest to rise and you can see the sheriff looking. She tears her eyes away, but they drift back to your breasts almost immediately.

Suddenly this encounter just got a lot more interesting.

You wave her into the house on the pretext of checking things out. What exactly she's going to check out you leave up to her imagination, and the flush on her cheeks tells you that the innuendo is not lost on her.

Once she's crossed the threshold you offer her a drink, and her quick acceptance belies her true intentions.

_Prowler, my ass._

You lead her to your office and settle her on the black leather couch. You dim the lights under the pretense of having tired eyes after a long week.

It appears that the sheriff babbles when she's feeling awkward because suddenly her mouth opens and the words start to flow. As you move through your office she proceeds to tell you all about her day.

As if you care how she spent her time.

But it keeps her distracted, and you discretely slip the papers you were reading earlier into a file folder and bury them on your desk.

You walk over to the cabinet and withdraw two crystal goblets.

She's talking now about her new computer equipment that just arrived this afternoon. She uses terms you're not that familiar with, things like "dual monitors" and "high speed graphics card". Henry loves technology, but you haven't really bothered to keep up with it. It's changed so much over the years.

Apart from your cell phone and Henry's laptop and gaming system, there are no other high tech devices in your home.

You can tell that the sheriff is proud, pleased that she placed the order herself, using her budget, and that Storybrooke's sheriff department is now in the twenty-first century. She reminds you a little of Henry in this moment and you find yourself paying more attention to her body language than her actual words. Her large gestures, her animated face.

You retrieve a bottle of cider as you listen with half an ear to her description of the fiasco of setting up the equipment. She describes a computer that initially just beeped and chattered and did nothing else at all. Then your ears perk up as you hear your son's name and you tune back in to the conversation.

"...I couldn't get it to do _anything_, and the people on the phone were totally useless. But then Henry..." Her voice trails off as she realizes what she just said, what she has just admitted to.

You turn to her, keeping your face carefully neutral.

"Henry fixed it and got it working. I know. He's skilled with computers."

Her mouth forms a surprised o-shape.

"You do realize that I keep tabs on my son, do you not Sheriff? That's what a good mother does." Your words are purposefully cold, judgmental.

Henry had been so excited, so pleased and proud of himself that he'd chattered on in the car as you drove him to his sleepover. Telling you all about the new computer equipment and his "mad computer skills".

You found yourself smiling inside, but of course you would never let it show. Never show approval for anything having to do with Storybrooke's sheriff, Henry's birth mother. And apparently you're not good at facilitating conversation with a pre-teen boy because after a few minutes his chatter died off and he spent the rest of the drive staring sullenly out the window.

When you'd tried to hug him good-bye he had ducked out from under your arm and fled from the car. He wouldn't even let you walk him to the door. The stab of pain in your chest had come out in a half-sob, and in retaliation you had shot a glare after his retreating figure before gunning the engine and speeding home.

And now this birth mother of your son sits in your dimly lit, lavishly decorated home office, crossing and uncrossing her legs awkwardly under your stern gaze.

You turn back to the cabinet, but make sure to keep her in your peripheral vision as you carefully pour two glasses of your homemade cider.

She's sitting on the edge of the couch, back straight, legs uncrossed again, hands on her knees. She's finally fallen quiet, much like your son had earlier in the day. Her eyes flick from her shoes to the painting on the wall, then back to her shoes again.

She's nervous.

You smile, a rather large, rather cocky grin.

You saunter over to the couch, feeling somewhat predatory. There are three cushions, but rather than leaving a polite space between your two bodies you deliberately choose the cushion directly next to the sheriff. The leather creaks softly as you settle.

She clears her throat and shimmies away. There's not far for her to go, and your grin broadens even further.

You hand her a glass of cider, purposefully passing her the one in your far hand. The move causes your body to lean into hers and you smile at her sharp intake of breath.

The smell of her shampoo makes your head spin, but rather than fighting it you embrace it. Let yourself get lost in it for a heartbeat.

She takes the glass from your hand, her fingers brushing yours gently as she does so. You allow a purr to vibrate in the base of your throat. It's better she hears that than the mad pounding of your heart.

You draw away, but not very far.

She looks like she's about to stand, about to leap up from the couch and flee into the night. That won't do. You both know what she came here for.

Time to get on with it.

"Try it." You gesture to her glass, full of sparkling amber liquid.

She does, and her eyes slide shut as she tastes the fruits of your labor.

"Delicious." Her voice is low, husky.

"I know." You deliberately drop your voice to match, breathe the words into her ear.

And then you kiss her. You take her jaw in your strong fingers, draw her face firmly to yours, and kiss her soft lips.

The taste of your cider on her tongue is pleasing and you bite down on her lower lip in approval. The two glasses barely make it to side table without spilling. And then you're on her, pushing her down into the couch. She doesn't resist, sinking into the cushions, reaching up to pull you closer.

This is about the only thing the two of you do well together. But you do it very well.

There is a flush rising on her neck and you dip your head to taste her collar bone. You bite down a little too hard and she gasps beneath you. Pain that becomes pleasure. This, finally, is something you're very good at.

She manages to divest you of your shirt and spends some time mapping the planes and curves of your torso. When she tries to slow it down, tries to take it to a softer place, you growl and push into her harder. Then her clothing is on the floor and you suck and bite your way down her body.

Her hands wrap in your hair as you push her legs roughly up and over your shoulders. The demanding tug on your scalp is painful and you hiss in approval, bringing your tongue and teeth to her center. Her eyes fly shut and her head whips back. And then she is yours.

Yours to command. Yours to taste and to tease. Yours to control.

Later, as she dozes on the couch, you extract yourself from her limbs and stretch your body tall, reaching for the ceiling. You feel good.

You pull on your pants. Her shirt is closer, so you slide your arms into the white sleeves and fasten the buttons up the front. It's similar in style to one of your own collared shirts, but larger, and it hangs comfortably around your body.

You roll the sleeves up your forearms and grab one of the glasses of cider from the table. It's sweet and tangy in your mouth, much like the woman on your couch.

You settle into your desk chair and retrieve the folder with the papers you were pursuing earlier in the evening. Where were you?

That's right, substance abuse.

You scan the documents, looking for the drugs that would be most condemning. But your eyes don't seem to want to focus and the letters blur on the page in front of you.

You sigh in annoyance and try again, forcing yourself to read the fine black print. Marijuana. Ecstasy. Nothing harder?

The words swim again and you find yourself glancing up, eyes falling on the body of the sleeping sheriff.

She is still gloriously naked. It's cool in the room and you can see a flush of goose bumps on her body.

Your eyes trace her curves. Her skin is dotted with scratch marks, bites, and small purple bruises. Some are fresh, some are older. Your claims to her body.

Suddenly the marks which had pleased you earlier in the evening look wrong. Upsetting. Her beautiful skin, her body, her goodness, they have all been tainted by contact with you. A wave of sickness rolls through you. This is regret, you realize.

The itch in your palm returns with a vengeance and you scratch at it madly.

And then you feel anger at your own weakness. At your broken thoughts. And you scoff at yourself. If the sheriff didn't like it, she wouldn't participate. Right?

Yet you find your feet carrying you across the room. You retrieve a soft throw blanket from the back of an armchair and drape it over her body. Because you don't want her to come crying to you when she gets sick in your house. Not because you want to warm her up. And certainly not because you want to cover the marks on her body.

You find yourself tucking the blanket gently around her shoulders, much the same way you used to do for Henry when he was small. The memory softens you for a moment, and when her eyes flutter open to meet yours she returns your smile.

Your heart skips a beat and you have to remind yourself to breathe.

You're still leaning over her and she reaches out a hand to grab a strand of your hair, running it through her fingers in gentle wonder. You think you should move away, but you're frozen to the spot.

She meets your eyes, her gaze open and sincere.

"I'm not gonna, you know," she murmurs softly.

You feel like you should know what she's talking about, but in this moment, her face close to yours, her grey-green eyes looking up at you with something dangerously close to affection, you feel completely lost. Isn't this woman the enemy?

The confusion must show on your face because she smiles again. She lets go of your hair and runs gentle fingers along your jaw. Your pulse quickens under her fingers. You swallow.

"I'm not going to take Henry away," she clarifies. "He belongs with you. I just wish..."

Her voices trails off and you find yourself wanting to beg her continue. To finish her words. But of course you do not. You never beg.

She sighs and drops her hand to the blanket, her eyes following its descent.

"I just wish you'd let me spend more time with him." Her words are quiet, defeated.

You pull away, make a non-committal noise. The words, when they escape your mouth, are soft and neutral. "We'll see."

You need space.

You move back to the desk, return to the papers.

Her eyes drift shut again. Earlier when you'd been watching her sleep her face was relaxed, content. Now her brows are drawn, even in slumber, and the lines around her mouth are deep.

You force yourself to pick up the printed pages again. To find the right evidence to incriminate the woman sleeping on your couch. But your steely resolve from earlier in the evening seems to have vanished, your desire for vengeance has drained away.

Maybe you're just tired.

With a sigh, you stack the papers neatly into a folder and promise yourself that you'll return to this later. You drop the entire file into a desk drawer and lock it shut.

Soft footfalls carry you back to the sheriff's side.

You draw the blanket from her body and nudge her awake.

"Miss Swan, if you're going to insist on sleeping in my house, at least make it somewhere comfortable." The words leave your mouth with no bite, and the sleepy warmth in her eyes melts something deep inside of you. The crease in her brow is gone.

Stopping to think now would be a bad idea, so you purposefully keep your mind quiet as you draw her from the room and up the stairs.

You normally find your bed in this world too big to be comfortable. Too soft, like it's going to swallow you whole. You feel lost in the vastness, in the pile of covers. In retaliation, you had tried filling your bed with Graham, the previous sheriff. But then the bed was always too hot, too suffocating.

There seems to be no middle ground and you haven't had a good night's sleep in years.

Tonight the new sheriff slides easily under the covers and is asleep within minutes. You lie beside her awkwardly, staring at the ceiling, wondering why you had initiated this. Perhaps you should go sleep in Henry's room.

You roll onto your side, facing her. Her blonde hair spills over the pillow, washed almost white in the orange glow of the streetlights seeping through your window. You find your fingers reaching out to caress its silky softness.

A wave of tiredness washes over you.

Not the bone-tired but wide-awake kind of feeling, where your thoughts are running fast and you're too tired to sleep. Not that kind of tired, but the good kind of tired. The kind you remember from when you were small, younger even than Henry. The kind you would feel after your father had tucked you into your little childhood bed, kissed you on the forehead, and blown out the candle.

That kind of tiredness.

You've heard the rumors. Rumors that she is the savior, the chosen one. The one who is here to break your spell and steal your son.

But at the moment you just can't bring yourself to care. At this moment you are actually... content.

You're asleep within minutes.


	7. Chapter 7

Much to your surprise, the next morning is only mildly awkward. It's not a work day, and thankfully Henry is still at a friend's house.

You both rise with the sun. She doesn't try to stick around. She collects her clothes and dresses quickly, grinning at the sleeves of her shirt which are still rolled up to the elbows. You think she's going to unroll them but she doesn't, just stuffs her arms awkwardly into her tight leather jacket.

She kisses you on the cheek, and before you can complain about the sappy gesture she is gone.

The rest of your weekend is mundane. Ordinary. You pick up Henry from his sleepover. He doesn't say a word to you the entire drive home, and once inside the front door he bangs up the steps and into his room.

While the sound of a child thumping around the house used to irritate you to no end, now you find that you can't stand the quiet. To escape the heavy silence you spend most of Sunday in your office at Town Hall.

Henry, you're sure, sneaks off to spend time with his birth mother. But he's already learned too much from you because you can't catch him at it. When you slip in the door late on Sunday afternoon he's lying on his bed reading a comic book.

The cold silence irks you for the rest of the evening, and around bed time you pick a fight just to get some form of reaction. As he storms out of the kitchen, you can't get the vision of him leaving forever out of your head. You want to call him back. Want to beg his forgiveness. Beg him not to leave you.

But you don't. You don't know how.

You swing out wildly. The clean pans from dinner, along with the drying rack, land on the floor with a loud clatter. Next is the toaster, and then the knife block. The steel blades flash madly in the harsh fluorescent light as they scatter across the room.

You sink to the floor amongst the mess, head in your hands.

Why is this happening? You're doing everything you can to hold on to him, and yet you're losing your son anyways. Losing the only bit of happiness you've had in a very long time.

Don't you deserve to be happy? Haven't you earned it, after all this time?

The sudden sob takes you by surprise. You haven't cried this often in a very long time. Since before your son's birth mother had blown into town and upset the calm, controlled life you'd built for yourself.

You need to pick yourself up off the floor, pull yourself together, and head to bed.

But it doesn't happen.

Your body begins to shake with the effort of suppressing the tears. You draw your knees to your chest and try to hold it all in. You gasp a breath, and then another.

You're losing. You hate losing.

You're defeated.

_How did you get so broken?_

_I'm taking back my son._

You laugh darkly, ironically, as you struggle for breath. _Well Sheriff, you don't even have to fight me for him. He's already yours._

The tears leak from your eyes, heavy and salty. You cry for the loss of your son. You cry for the little girl who was never good enough in her mother's eyes. You cry for the woman who was betrayed, who lost love and thereby lost herself.

Gradually the tears slow and you take a deep, shaky breath. You note with some disgust that the knees of your pants are wet with tears and you lift your head away from the damp cloth.

You uncoil your body carefully. Your legs are stiff, your shoulders aching. Your jaw is sore from trying to hold in the pain. When you unclench your fists you find half-moon imprints on your palms.

But it's nothing you can't handle. Nothing is broken, nothing is bleeding. At least not on the outside.

You quietly clean up the mess in the kitchen and shut the lights behind you.

As you lie awake that night, tossing and turning in your too-large bed, you wonder what the sheriff has that you lack. What is it that draws your son to her like a magnet, and by the same token repels him from you?

You don't get much sleep that night, but that's nothing new.

xxx

Monday morning you rise from bed with new resolve. You take a long shower, apply a layer of makeup and pristine clothing, a dose of expensive perfume. The real you, the broken you, is buried under the layers of your persona. Safe, at least for the moment.

Henry has already slipped out for school by the time you get downstairs. Crumbs on the kitchen counter, toothpaste in the sink and splashes of water on the mirror are the only indicators that he has indeed passed through.

You feel your mask start to slip at the reminder that your son is doing everything he can to avoid you, but you correct yourself, tie the mask firmly back in place, and wipe down the sink and mirror with distant hands.

You're at work early, grateful that you can slip into your inner office before your secretary arrives. After seating yourself in the black leather chair you follow through on the two things you had resolved to do in the sleepless hours before the dawn.

You'd spent a significant amount of time examining the possibilities. The options, the choices. Trying to determine where you'd gone wrong. Trying to decide how to adjust, where to focus your energies. What game piece to play next.

The sun was just creeping past the horizon when you'd finally reached a conclusion. Henry is your priority. You need to fix things. You can't lose him.

Everything else, your own happiness included, can wait.

Since your strategy has only been backfiring, you've had to come up with something new. And so you execute two tasks before your resolve fails.

A quick phone call secures you an appointment with Dr. Hopper later in the week. Not for Henry, but for yourself. The psychologist's overly kind voice on the other end of the phone irks you, and you grind your teeth to prevent the cutting words from flowing out. You slam the phone down, the crashing noise a poor outlet for your embarrassment.

But it's done.

Your next task is a quick note on yellow lined paper. The sound of your pen scratching out the words sounds loud to your ears, and you wonder if you're signing your surrender. But you don't stop to dwell, just stuff the note quickly into a large brown envelope and wind the string once around the fastener. The envelope is deposited on your secretary's desk to go out with the morning mail run.

To prevent yourself from snatching the envelope back and destroying its contents, you tug your coat back on and stride purposefully out of the office. You decide that the facilities department is overdue for a surprise inspection, and in fact it's probably best to hurry over while they're still easing into their morning.

Behind you, in a ratty old envelope, lies a note intended for Storybrooke's sheriff. There is only one item on the list.

_Pick up Henry from school today. Have him home before bedtime._

xxx

The next few days pass quickly. The sheriff calls late in the week to ask if she can spend another afternoon with your son. Her voice is tentative on the other end of the phone, cautious. Your quiet agreement takes her by surprise and she hangs up after some stupidly giddy words of thanks.

As soon as the line goes dead you want to call her back. To lecture her about ensuring that Henry has his homework done. That he has a healthy after school snack. That he doesn't get his clothes dirty on who knows what adventure she takes him on. That she keeps him safe.

But you don't.

Your appointment with Dr. Hoper had been awkward at best. You had arrived ten minutes late after a long debate with yourself outside his office.

Blow off the appointment. Don't blow off the appointment. Blow off the appointment.

Finally the image of Henry's young, hurt face floating in your mind had won out and you'd slunk into the psychologist's office. It had taken him almost twenty minutes to get you to admit to why you were there. For some reason the admission of your difficulties with your son hadn't been as painful as you'd been expecting, and after that you'd managed to relax ever so slightly.

You hadn't gotten too far; opening up is a challenge, especially to a man who used to be a cricket. You'd kind of hoped that he would have some sort of miraculous solution, but you know better than anyone else that there is no magic in this land.

He had left you with one piece of advice however, and you've been trying to follow it.

Back off. Let Henry find his own way, make his own decisions. Be there to guide, to assist. But not to dictate.

You'd almost laughed in his face. You were a queen; dictating is what you do. But this is for Henry. And so you've tried, you've tried so very hard.

And, much to your shock, it seems to be working. At least a little.

Henry is smiling more, spending more time in your presence. You wouldn't call your relationship with him fantastic, but at least it's cordial again. This morning he even let you drive him to school.

You remember what it was like hiding things from your mother, the sick feeling and constant stress you were under with Daniel. By allowing your son to see his birth mother openly you seem to have relieved some of his stress. And that, in turn, makes you less of the bad guy.

You have another appointment booked with the psychologist for next week.

You're feeling tentatively good about yourself, about the direction things are going. Fix things with Henry, smooth out your rocky working relationship with the sheriff, and life will be easy again. You'll even leave Mary Margaret Blanchard alone, leave it all in the past. No more games, no more manipulations.

You nod to yourself, pleased.

You push any lingering worries about Henry and the sheriff from your mind as you return to the paperwork on your desk. You would deny it if anyone asked, but there is a faint tune humming in the back of your throat.

Things are going to be better from now on. You can feel it.

At that moment, two unfamiliar men in state police uniforms burst into your office.

The one on the left flashes his badge at you. The words that come from his mouth send a cold shock through your whole system, killing your good mood instantly.

"Mayor Regina Mills, you're under arrest."

xxxx

_Hi everyone - I understand that Chapter 8 is not displaying. It shows me 8 chapters, but the 8th one is not accessible. I deleted it and reposted, same issue. I have contacted fanfiction to ask for help. Sorry for the inconvenience, and thanks to everyone who let me know it wasn't working._

_Further A/N - It appears to be working again. Thanks for your patience!  
_


	8. Chapter 8

The sheriff has finally betrayed you.

She's been kind, supportive, only to get on your good side. Now that she has your consent to see Henry she doesn't need you anymore. You curse yourself and wish that you'd never listened to the psychologist, that you'd followed through with your plans to get the sheriff out of your life for good.

The betrayal hurts just as much as it did the first time. Maybe even more so.

She has totally blindsided you. You didn't think she had it in her; you were actually beginning to trust. You shake your head at your own foolishness. Your chest hurts, moisture stings your eyes.

The policemen cuff you and lead you from the office. You take a deep breath and force your features into a confident, controlled expression. You keep your head high, glare at your secretary as they march you past.

You spit some words at her as shove you out the door. "This is a misunderstanding, inform the town. And call my lawyer."

You barely see her shocked nod as the door shuts behind you. Was that a smirk forming on her face? You resolve to fire her as soon as you're out of these cuffs. Fire her, and then find a way to take away everything she holds dear.

After wiping the sheriff off the face of the planet, of course.

A few minutes later you are being marched into the sheriff's station like a prisoner of war. The policemen move you along at a quick pace, your strides awkward in your tight skirt and high heels. Painfully undignified.

You stumble into the room, the officers flanking you on either side.

The shock on the sheriff's face is genuine.

She looks completely flabbergasted, her mouth hanging open in a most unattractive way. Either she's an extremely good actress, or she's not the one who called the state police. Your brain shifts rapidly, trying to process this new development. If not the sheriff, then who?

She's moving forward, taking possession of you from the male officers. Supporting you gently by the elbow. Shooting them a death glare that would almost be worthy of yourself.

The shock is finally kicking in and you feel numb. You don't know what to think, what to believe.

At the insistence of the state police, you let her lead you docilely into one of the cells. She guides you to a seated position on the small bed and bends down to look in your eyes.

"Just for a few minutes Regina, okay?" Her words are spoken softly but firmly. They're meant to be reassuring, but your stomach sinks even further.

You want to cry out. _Don't leave me in here! _But the words stick in your throat.

She shuts the cell behind you and locks it, tucks the key into her pocket.

Heated words fill the room, but you only catch every second or third phrase through the roaring in your ears. _Kidnapping. Botched investigation. Insider tip. _

Then the sheriff's voice rings out. _No evidence. Full investigation. No charges._

With a start, you realize that she's still defending you. She's not the betrayer. And you wonder why.

This could be her moment. She could hand you over to state police, Henry would be hers. The mere fact that the policemen are in town suggests that the curse is already weakening. Perhaps close to breaking. This could be it.

She shoots you a frustrated look, as if you're to blame for all of this, and perhaps you are.

She draws the men to the other side of the room, talks to them in a calm voice. The officers sit, sipping coffee and eating her donuts as she walks them through the pages of her investigation. The search warrant. The lack of evidence. Kathryn's return and good health.

They take out a small electronic device and play back the anonymous phone call. The sheriff listens, head cocked, to the 'insider tip'. The voice is disguised but the accent is very familiar. Gold.

You wonder what his angle is. What does he have to gain from your removal from the town?

You snort softly to yourself. He has everything to gain, and absolutely nothing to lose. You were sloppy, and now you have to pay the price.

The sheriff must be thinking the same thing because she stares at you for a moment, a question in her eyes. You don't respond, just keep your gaze forward, your face blank. She turns back to the policemen with a frustrated sigh.

She tries to explain the politics in the town. That you're a strong mayor with big ideas and that not everyone agrees with your leadership. Then she tries for the softer side, tells them about your son and the playground you had built for the children.

The officers are looking torn. They can't release you, not until they complete this investigation. But they need more evidence. The sheriff points them to the center of town, gives vague directions to Granny's where they can find something to eat, and promises to catch up with them in a few minutes.

She watches them exit the building, grey eyes trailing after their retreating figures.

And then she's unlocking the door to your cell. She's on her knees in front of you, trying to get you to meet her eyes. You purposefully look away, stare at the dirty wall beside the bed. What more does she want from you?

Her eyes flash in frustration. And then her hands are on your knees, her grip hard. She shakes you gently but with intent.

"Regina." Your name flies from her lips, sharp and demanding.

"Regina, I need to know." She doesn't specify what she's asking about, and for a moment you tinker with the idea of being purposefully obtuse. Make her work for the answer. You slowly turn your head towards her.

You can see her pulse, beating steadily at the side of her neck. She's solid, real.

Can you trust her?

After a moment you close your eyes and nod. "Yes." It comes out as a whisper.

Your eyes open again and bore into the sheriff's. "Yes," you say again, and this time the word is firm. "I had Kathryn kidnapped."

"Why?" The question is more curious than anything else.

"To frame Miss Blanchard."

The sheriff blinks rapidly several times. You can see her brain working, trying to put the puzzle pieces together. Mary Margaret Blanchard is her roommate. Her friend. And so much more that she isn't even aware of.

"Why?" she finally asks again.

"It's a long story." You laugh weakly.

"Damn it, Regina," she sighs. There is disappointment in her voice, bitterness.

Your eyes drop to her hands on your knees. You should be used to disappointing people by now, but somehow you can't stop the hurt from rising in your chest.

You stare hard at her hands. Her nails are unpolished, her fingers strong and lean. You remember the feel of her hands on your bare skin. How they had caressed you, worshiped you. Grabbed you and held you close.

Those hands tighten their grip, fingers digging painfully into your flesh. You find that you welcome the discomfort. It's real. Grounding.

When she speaks next her words are drawn out, careful and slow. "Are you going to do it again?"

Your eyes fly sharply to hers. This is the real question, you realize. And she's not asking about kidnapping Kathryn. The question she's asking is much larger. She wants to know about your power plays, your games. Your need to win.

You remember your half-finished plans to incriminate the sheriff. To destroy her life in order to protect your own.

The thoughts must show in your eyes because she nods darkly and releases her grip on your legs. She starts to stand, to turn away, and you find yourself reaching out desperately, grabbing her wrist and holding her in place.

"No!" The word comes out in a desperate whisper. At first you think you're telling her not to go, not to leave you to your fate.

But then you realize that it's her answer, and you feel a kind of peace settle into your chest as you speak the word aloud again.

"No. I'm done with that. No more games." You inject your words with all the sincerity you can muster.

She's still suspicious, and you can't blame her. Why should she take your word for this? Logically this is just another of those games.

She asks the question again, sounding a little like your son when he was three years old and trying to figure out the world around him. "Why?"

The words that flow from your mouth are true, probably the truest thing you've said since losing Daniel. "Because of Henry. Because of my son."

The words land gently, honestly. Her eyes soften. She extracts her wrist from your grip and replaces it with her fingers, gently taking your hand.

"Okay." The word is simple. Accepting.

And then, "We'll get you out of this."

Is it really that easy?

Something in her eyes changes and her grip tightens, white knuckles squeezing your fingers. You jump at the sudden pressure. _Perhaps it's not that easy._

"But Regina," her face is cold. "No more. This is the end of it, do you hear me?"

You sigh. Defeated, and yet not. There is only one answer. You nod, giving your promise.

She peers into your eyes a few moments longer, judging your sincerity. She must find what she's looking for because she makes a small grunt in the back of her throat and lets go of your hands. She stands up, towering tall above you.

"I'll be back."

The words echo over her shoulder as she exits the cell and locks it behind her. And then she's gone.


	9. Chapter 9

It takes almost two days for you to be released. Forty-seven hours in the tiny cell. No privacy, no change of clothes. No lawyer appears, and you wonder if your secretary even bothered to call him.

The sheriff brings you meals - pancakes and pizza and hamburgers with fries - and for lack of anything better to do you eat. You eat until you feel sick, until the food threatens to return and you find yourself hunched over the small toilet, emptying the grease and the worry from your belly.

She brings you a stack of magazines. Frivolous, glossy pages full of hair styles, celebrity gossip and sex tips. You finally break down and read them out of sheer boredom, sheer frustration.

She brings you a toothbrush and multiple cups of coffee.

She doesn't bring you Henry.

She tells you he's safe. That he's staying with Mary Margaret, that she's feeding him well and making sure he keeps up with his homework. She tells you that she's assured him that this is a mistake, that you'll be home soon.

You grind your teeth but say nothing.

You are the perfect prisoner. Quiet, polite. You ask for nothing. The officers question you one at a time, then both together. They play good-cop, bad-cop. Through it all you remain meek and confused. And it's not really a game. You feel lost and adrift. You find it hard to care about anything, locked up in a small cell where the lights never go out.

You feel broken.

Mr. Gold slides in sometime around the twenty-eighth hour. Gives you a triumphant, knowing smile. Tries to draw you into a conversation full of innuendo and intrigue. You ignore him, focus instead on the magazine article in front of you. Apparently raw potato can decrease puffiness around the eyes. Who knew?

He leaves a few minutes later, unfulfilled.

And in the end they have no proof.

To your dismay, it's Archie Hopper's testimonial that finally frees you. He describes your counseling session, how you're working to mend your relationship with your son. How you struggle to be part of a community, a woman in a leadership role. That you're not always perfect, but that he believes you have good in you.

You wonder what he sees that you don't.

He also states, on the record, that there is no love lost between you and the sheriff, and that the sheriff would have no reason to protect you and every reason to accuse you.

You tend to agree with him there. You still don't understand why she's covering for you, and you wonder how much you're going to owe her when all of this done. How much you're going to have to change to be worthy of the second chance she has bestowed upon you.

In fact you wonder if you can ever be good enough, if you can ever mend the breaks. Ever live up to the high ideals people seem to have of you. Is it even worth trying?

At the start of your forty-eighth hour in the cell, the officers enter the station and pronounce you free to go. They are flanked by the sheriff on one side, Dr. Hopper on the other.

You remain seated, blinking up at them in confusion. The relieved smile on the sheriff's face finally snaps through your haze and you spring from your perch on the small bed, magazines sliding unnoticed to the floor.

"Let me out." The words are sharp, desperate.

The sheriff steps forward and unlocks your cell. Her eyes are shining, her small smile the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

As you step through the cell doors, Dr. Hopper gives you a pat on the shoulder. You manage not to cringe away from him, manage to look him in the eye and give him a cordial nod.

Then you peer around his shoulder to stare longingly at the blonde.

_Please?_

The word echoes in your head. You're not sure what you're asking for. For her arms around you? For her to tell you that it's real, that you're free to go? That you have your second chance?

The sheriff meets your eyes but makes no move towards you. Her face is distant, blank.

You look at her desperately. Is this it? Now that you've been released, is she finally abandoning you?

She must see the sudden alarm in your eyes because she allows her face to soften ever so slightly. Then she shakes her head minutely, a small gesture that you see only because you're staring at her so hard.

She steps away, keeping a purposeful distance, and you understand. She's still protecting you.

This interaction takes place within a few heartbeats, and fortunately it appears as if no one else has noticed your desperate longing. This is a relief, because you too can pretend it never happened.

You shake your head. _Time to get back in the game._

You, Regina Mills, mayor of Storybrooke, Evil Queen from Henry's stories, need no one. Least of all an annoying sheriff who happens to be the birth mother of your son.

If you repeat that enough times you might even start to believe it.

Dr. Hopper escorts you away from the cell with a hand in the small of your back. The exterior door opens and you're temporarily blinded by the sun hanging low in the sky. You blink a few times, forcing your eyes to adjust after two days of dim, artificial light.

When they finally focus you immediately recoil. Sidney is right in your face, camera flashing, and most of the citizens of Storybrooke are gathered around. Watching. Curious.

You dip your head, stare at the toes of your two-day-old shoes. You wish you had been given a chance to shower, or at least to wash your face and tidy your hair. This is preposterous. You can't go in front of your citizens looking like this.

The sheriff shoulders Sidney rather roughly out of the way and makes space at the front of the crowd. The taller of the two police officers steps forward. You never did bother to learn his name.

He raises a hand and the crowd falls silent. He gives you a public apology, repeating three times that you are free to go. That there is no proof against you, that the state regrets any inconvenience or hardship that has been placed upon you during the investigation.

Your eyes fall on Mr. Gold as he limps from the crowd and disappears down the street. The scowl on his face is almost enough to make you smile.

A moment later a small body comes barreling out of the press of bodies, and the smile finally does rise to your lips.

"Mom!" Henry's voice cracks as he throws himself at you, burying his head in your chest. You wrap your arms around him and hold on tight. He's squeezing too hard, you can't breathe, but in this moment you don't care. His small arms are gathering the broken pieces of your soul and knitting them back together.

You don't even need to fake the tears that leak from your eyes.

A collective murmur of approval rises from the crowd, dozens of voices expressing acceptance and joy. If you cared, you'd be pleased because this is the best PR stunt you've pulled in a long time. But you don't care.

You barely notice the state police officers moving away, back to their vehicle. You barely notice the sheriff as she starts to break up the crowd, as she sends them back to their daily routines.

All you notice is the clean smell of your son's hair. His breath, hot and heavy against your shoulder. And his hands, still desperately holding onto you as hard as he can.

After a few minutes he looks up at you, his brown eyes shy and red-rimmed. "I love you, Mom."

The words are quiet, but they're probably one of the sweetest things you've ever heard. Your heart swells, suddenly feeling too big for your chest.

"I love you too, Henry." Your voice is shaky but the words are firm, joyful. You plant a kiss on the crown of his head and chuckle at the noise of disgust he makes in the back of his throat. His eyes are amused, desperate, and he stifles a small, slightly-hysterical giggle.

You ruffle his hair and gently extract yourself from his vice grip. He grabs onto your shirt sleeve with a tight fist, and together the two of you turn to look back at the street.

It's empty, apart from a single woman leaning casually against a telephone pole. Her arms are crossed, the star on her belt shining. Her red jacket is brilliant in the late afternoon sun.

The smile on her face is genuine as her electric eyes meet yours. Your heart catches painfully and another piece of your soul slides into place.

"Emma." It's the first time you've spoken her first name out loud. The surprise on her face mimics your own. You certainly hadn't meant to say that.

A moment later a pleased smile curls her lips and you feel any misgivings fade away. She pushes off the pole and walks towards you.

Henry intercepts her approach. Maybe he's trying to run interference between the two of you, because god knows you've been nothing but confrontational towards each other in front of him. Or maybe he's just reaching out, overcome with emotions, trying to find another anchor.

Whatever the reason, he grabs hold of her hand and then slides his other hand down to take yours. He's now in the middle, sandwiched between his two mothers. The thought creates a surprisingly warm tingle deep in your belly.

This is how he should be. Protected, safe, and loved. From all sides.

The sheriff starts to tug the two of you towards her car, the ugly yellow bug parked down the street, but Henry shakes his head.

"No, let's walk."

Grey eyes meet yours over his head, questioning. You nod.

And so the three of you walk home. You're exhausted. Your feet hurt. Your head hurts. You're hungry and you feel weak.

But the two of them give you strength. They are your reason for change.

xxxxxxx

_Almost there, just two more chapters to go. Thanks for sticking with me. _

_Also, thank-you to Mar who always takes the time to leave a comment on my stories, but who doesn't have an FF account so I can't sent a note. So thank-you Mar, I appreciate all your comments.  
_

_And thanks to everyone else who has commented along the way! I value each and every one.  
_


	10. Chapter 10

_Emma_

You're in Granny's, leaning idly on the counter while Ruby fixes you a hot chocolate with extra whipped cream.

It's been nearly six weeks since Regina was sprung from jail. Since you walked her home and said an awkward good-bye on her front step. Since she looked at you with a confused mix of vulnerability and determination before ushering Henry inside and shutting the door gently behind her.

Since that day you've formed a tentative sort of truce with the dark woman.

She can still be a real bitch to work with at times, demanding perfection and almost impossible results.

But the to-do notes have continued, bringing with them a lighter side to your working relationship with the mercurial woman. Sometimes the notes even come with something attached. A bar of the darkest chocolate. A copy of Henry's school essay on cultures of the world. An invitation to dinner.

You blush, remembering that dinner. Or more accurately, what came after dinner. You and Henry had giggled through the entire meal, telling silly stories and cracking jokes. The stern, disapproving expression on the mayor's face had been belied by the faint warmth in her eyes and the slight twitch on the corner of her lips.

After dinner she had sent Henry upstairs to start on his homework, and then she'd walked you out to the garage on the pretense of getting your advice on a project. As if Regina Mills ever did any sort of projects in her garage.

She'd taken you on the hood of her black Mercedes. Hard, fast and wet.

Granny deposits two plates of eggs and toast on the counter for a couple of construction workers about to start their night shifts. She runs her eyes run up and down your torso before shooting you a strange look. She's caught you daydreaming, and you smile sheepishly as she bustles back to the kitchen.

The bell over the door chimes and you turn automatically to see who just walked in. You feel your heart start to beat a little faster as the object of your thoughts strides up to the cash register, a gust of cold night air following in her wake.

She's wearing a steel grey dress under a black jacket, and her shiny black heels click loudly on the cheap linoleum floor. Her eyes are dark and intense, focused solely on Ruby. She pays no attention to you or to anyone else in the room.

She leans against the counter in a confident manner and places a to-go order, dropping a crisp five dollar bill by the cash register.

Ruby nods, acknowledging the order, but takes the time to finish spooning the whipped cream on your hot chocolate. She adds a sprinkle of cinnamon and presents the white coffee mug to you with a flourish. You smile at her in thanks and lift the mug to your lips, blowing gently on the steaming beverage.

As Ruby turns back to the coffee machine to start the mayor's order, deep brown eyes finally turn your way. The mayor pushes off the counter and straightens up, managing to match your height in her incredible heels. She looks down her nose at your mug, the disgust clear in her face.

"Really Sheriff," she chastises, "You're going to be up all night with the amount of sugar in that drink."

Her words are sharp, condescending, but you notice a slight twinkle in her eyes, a curl on the corner of her lips. You wonder when you got so good at reading her expressions.

"Like you should talk," you scoff back at her, waving a hand dismissively. "I didn't even know Ruby made caramel macchiatos."

The whole room falls quiet. Ruby shoots you a desperate look from above the brewing coffee. Her glare speaks for itself. _Shut up, Emma!_

The mayor quirks an eyebrow, and then she snorts in amusement. Ruby's eyes are wide.

The woman in front of you takes a step forward, her eyes level with yours, her gaze electric. Your pulse flutters.

"Well then," she speaks clearly, loud enough for the whole diner to overhear. "Since we're both going to be up all night, perhaps you would care to return to the office to review the upcoming budget with me?"

"I have plans," you blurt out, momentarily flustered. You had only been planning on chatting with Ruby over a hot chocolate and then heading home to bed. Nothing monumental really, but it's not in you to be at anyone's beck and call.

She smirks again. Her words are dry. "Cancel them. This is part of your job, Sheriff. I require your input."

"On a Friday night?"

"Law enforcement is always on duty," she informs you. "If that's not your thing, you should never have taken the job."

She steps forward again. She's right in your space, her nose almost touching yours, her eyes boring into your own, unblinking.

"Henry…?" you stutter, slightly breathless.

"Henry is back at the Jones boy's house tonight," she informs you. Her breath is warm on your face. "Seems they've found common ground. They're building a computer. Or something."

She shrugs, an almost sheepish expression flashing quickly across her face. Then she pulls back slightly and flicks her eyes up and down your body, all business again.

Ruby clears her throat softly and places a plastic-lidded beverage on the counter.

The mayor reaches out with elegant fingers to claim her coffee. "So Sheriff," she continues. "You up for it?" Her voice is challenging, the double-innuendo in her question clear.

You sigh, rub your forehead in pained gesture. You wish this weren't turning into such a public scene.

Granny pokes her head out of the kitchen long enough to make a _tch tch_ noise at the mayor's rudeness. Ruby's eyes are still as round as saucers as she watches the two of you intently, her eyes darting back and forth in fascination as they follow the conversation. Easily a dozen sets of ears in the diner are tuned your way, listening carefully.

You hesitate.

The dark-haired woman in front of you makes an impatient gesture. "Well? Are you coming? Or not."

You meet her eyes. Smirk. Like you'd turn that offer down. You make a noise of agreement.

The mayor nods, pleased, the triumph clear on her face. She turns back to Ruby and gestures to your mug of hot chocolate. "Put that in a paper cup, dear," she orders blithely.

Ruby gulps, looks to you for confirmation. You give her a faint nod.

She pours your drink carefully into a to-go cup, then adds some extra cinnamon as a consolation prize. The snap of the plastic lid is loud in the quiet diner.

You accept the warm beverage and nod at her in thanks. The heated whispers start up as soon as you turn to follow the mayor out the door.

Once outside, the cold, damp night air makes you shiver and you draw your jacket tightly around your body. You follow the mayor's slim back across the street, moving away from the glow from the diner.

Her footfalls slow as she draws close to her black Mercedes. She finally turns to face you, a look of pleased smugness on her face. You shake your head and sigh.

"Really Regina?" you mutter darkly. "Leave me a little dignity at least, won't you?"

She grins, a full smile that lights up her face and causes your heart to thump loudly in your chest.

"Now dear, I have a reputation to maintain, don't I?" she asks demurely, sliding closer to you. She places her coffee on the roof of her car and runs soft fingers down your arm to grasp your fingers.

You fight to keep your expression stern. "Next time you want to ask me out on a date, maybe you could do it a little more nicely?"

Her face registers shock and she hastily drops your hand.

You've never really talked about this _thing_ that's going on. About the fact that you risked your career and your reputation to protect her, or the fact that you now spend at least two nights a week in her bed.

You've been hanging around an awful lot, and you're sure that Henry's noticed. But he hasn't said anything. Yet. You assume he's holding off because he's afraid to speak. Afraid to break the spell that has surrounded his house and his two mothers, leaving a quiet sort of peace. Afraid to startle a mom who is finally loosening up, supporting him instead of cutting him down.

Regina has continued her counseling sessions, this much you know. Lying entwined in bed one night, she had shared some of Archie Hopper's advice.

_Henry is his own person. That person needs to be supported, allowed to grow. A parent's job is to help their child become independent. A child is not something that you produce solely to continue your legacy, but rather a being that you send out into the world with the skills to be his own person. A good person. A good man._

In an amazed and slightly embarrassed voice, she had admitted softly that this was a foreign concept. Something that she had never even considered as a possibility.

She's been extremely vague about her childhood, and you had wondered again about the old hurt. About who it may have been that left her so broken inside, who had only seen Regina as a product of their legacy, not as a living, breathing individual.

The next morning Regina had ordered a pile of computer parts on the internet. Hard drives, graphics cards, memory sticks, cables. When they had arrived exactly one week later she had bounced like a child, impatient for Henry get home and open his surprise.

The image of that moment remains burned in your memory. The incredulous joy on Henry's face. The way he'd flown into his mother's arms. Regina's genuine happiness, her pleasure and pride.

And as inconsistent and bitchy as this woman can be, you know that she can change. That she is changing.

And you're glad that you're around to see it.

But you've never talked about it. Never talked about your role in her life beyond that of the town's sheriff. Of Henry's birth mother.

And certainly never discussed a concept such as dating.

Dating is something that normally you would never consider. Ever. You're more of a one night stand kind of girl; relationships just aren't your thing. But you find, much to your own bewilderment, that you'll break even your own rules for this woman.

You smile at her.

She recovers quickly, reclaims your hand and draws you to her until your eyes are inches apart. Your breath mingles, damp clouds in the cold night air.

From this close you can see right through her smoldering eyes, all the way into her soul.

Those eyes slide shut and she kisses you. Softly, tenderly. She breaks away, glances around at the empty street, at the fogged windows of the diner.

She laughs softly, an amazed, delighted sound.

"Not here," she murmurs against your lips. "My place. Follow me home?"

You nod, still breathless. Release her hand. Begin to walk backwards in the direction of your yellow bug parked a block away.

Thankfully Storybrooke is a small town, virtually deserted at night, because you're not paying any attention to your surroundings. You back through the intersection against the light, your eyes fixed to the mayor's shapely figure.

Her gaze rests on you for a moment and there's a wistful look on her face, barely visible in the faint glow of the street lights. Then she shakes her head as if to clear it, retrieves her coffee from the roof of her car and slides into the driver's seat.

You watch her engine start and tail lights come on, and then finally you turn, scramble into your own vehicle. You start the engine and hastily pull the seatbelt around your body.

You park your car on the street outside her house. You've been careful these past weeks, arriving either on foot or else leaving your car parked several blocks away on a main road. But tonight you don't care.

The front door is cracked open, light from the foyer spilling out into the night. You trot up the front walk, half-finished hot chocolate in hand, and push open the door.

She's waiting for you. She's removed her coat and your eyes immediately fall to her bare shoulders. You move forward, intending to place a kiss on the soft skin, but she stops you with a perfectly manicured hand on your chest.

You meet her dark eyes in vague confusion. She points to the cup in your hand.

"Do you want to finish that?"

You look at her, incredulous. _What?_

The faint crinkle around her stormy eyes betrays the fact that she's teasing you yet again, and you wonder how much of the heated banter between the two of you in the past actually had something deeper beneath it.

You clear your throat, shake your head to answer in the negative. She removes the cup from your loose grip and strides into the kitchen where she deposits it on the counter near the sink.

As you trail after her you call out, "What about your coffee?"

She meets you in the doorway to the kitchen, smirks.

"I wasn't there for the coffee," she husks. She reaches around you to flick off the lights. Then she's gone, heading for the stairs.

"Oh," you reply, flustered. You give your head a half-shake and scramble after her retreating figure.

Upstairs you hover nervously just inside the door of her bedroom. You watch as she moves around the room, lighting candles and then clicking off the lamp. She tugs the comforter off the bed, leaving only the sheets.

It's not that you've never been in this room before, never been in that bed. Because you have. But it's never been so deliberate. It's always been a heated scramble, body pressed against naked body. Or else it's been a tired stumble, late in the night, collapsing into bed only to fall asleep in each other's arms.

This purposeful deliberation is new.

Finally running out of things to do, she turns to look at you. There's a shy expression on her face and you realize that she's just as nervous as you are. All of this prep work is just her way of managing it.

She looks much younger suddenly, sweet and tentative, and you have a glimpse of her as a young woman, a glimpse of what she must have looked like before life and circumstances wore her down, hardened her up.

You want to preserve this moment. Preserve her sweetness, her beauty. You step forward and reach gently to her face. You run wondrous fingers down her cheek, over her jawbone. Her eyes flutter shut and a soft hum escapes her throat.

Your fingertips trace her neck, feel the rapid pulsing of blood in her arteries. Brush a collar bone.

Her eyes blink open and gaze into yours, open and raw. She grasps your shoulders lightly for balance and steps out of her heels. She is shorter suddenly, and you dip your head to rest your cheek against hers. You inhale the scent of apples. Shampoo and laundry soap. Spicy perfume.

Her voice rumbles softly into your ear, sending a tingling through your body that lands straight between your legs. "Emma." It's gentle, softly pleading.

Four hands work together to remove first your clothing and then hers. And then she stands before you, naked, toes curling into the plush throw rug. The candle light casts a soft glow on her smooth skin and gentle curves.

You grasp her hipbones, pull her gently towards you. At the feel of her skin against yours you throw your head back in wonder. Will it always be like this? So intense, so amazing?

You guide her backwards until her knees hit the bed. She falls into the sheets and tugs you down clumsily on top of her. You finally get to kiss that shoulder that had been tempting you downstairs, and from there you trail your lips over her collarbone, up her throat. Over her jugular, along her jaw. Your tongue traces the path back down to the hollow in her neck and she tosses her head back, arches into you.

Your fingers trail down her side, swirl around her hip bone, and then trace a light pattern back up her stomach and around the curve of a soft breast. Then back down again to cup the wetness between her thighs.

Her eyes snap open. A hand comes down to hold yours firmly in place. She grins, showing teeth.

This is not the soft smile of a few minutes before, but rather a look that is mischievous and predatory in nature.

Her fingers tighten briefly around yours, pushing you into her wetness, and then in a quick move she tosses your hand away. She wraps a leg around your thigh and suddenly you're on your back, looking up into smoldering eyes.

She sits up and straddles your belly.

You reach towards her but she bats your hand away again. "Uh uh, Sheriff. Unless you need me to tie you down?" Her voice is low and gravelly, teasing.

You swallow. Consider the options, the image of lying bound beneath this amazing creature. Perhaps another day, you decide. You concede to her will and put your hands behind your head.

She nods, pleased with your choice, and then spends several long heartbeats raking her gaze up and down your body. Trying to decide where to start.

She leans down, her hands coming to rest on either side of your head. The kiss is sweet, her mouth warm and minty fresh. You wonder when she found time to brush her teeth, wish you'd thought to do the same. But any self-consciousness is driven quickly from your mind as she reaches a hand between your bodies and tweaks your nipple.

She swallows your gasping moan.

Teasing fingers trace a path down your chest and circle your breast, drawing closer and closer to the peak. When she finally brushes your nipple again you gasp and push up into her, but her fingers are gone.

Then a gentle touch on your other breast, soft fingertips at first, then your breast cupped in her palm. She kisses you again, and you wonder if you've ever been kissed like this before in your life. She's kissing you as if she's trying to merge her soul with yours and you pour everything you have into her mouth.

You need to touch her. You ease your hands out from under your head and bring them tentatively to her thighs. A heartbeat, and then another, as you wait to see if she's going to push you away. But she doesn't, she allows your hands to remain and you tighten your grip, needing to feel grounded.

She breaks the kiss, trails her lips down to your nipple. Soft swipes of the tongue, and then slightly harder, nipping with gentle teeth.

She hasn't marked you since before the jail incident. The bruises and bites have faded, and you feel as if she's being extra careful with you. As if you're a doll that might break.

You cup the back of her head, pull her more firmly to you. She pushes your hand away and moves with purposeful gentleness to your other breast.

Determined, you reach out again. You run a hand through her hair, scratching gently across the scalp. Then suddenly you grab a gentle fistful of hair and pull, while your other hand reaches out to grab her nipple firmly. You twist, pinch hard, and release.

She bites down involuntarily in surprise and you surge up into her body with a groan. _God yes, that's it._

She freezes. A long pause, and then you can feel her smiling against her chest.

Then she's on you. Teeth and tongue, fingers and nails. You arch up into her, hiss in pleasure as she scratches a line down your back. Sharp nails dig into your buttocks, pull your center up to meet her thigh.

She backs off, rearranges your bodies, and then without warning her fingers plunge deep inside of you. You cry out, pull her closer. She pulls out, hovers. Teases. You strain for more contact. And then without warning she's inside again, curling her fingers.

She continues to tease you, shallow, deep, shallow again. Your hands are on her back, urging her closer. Your teeth find purchase on her shoulder. When your eyes flutter open you see her burning eyes watching you. Pleased and intent.

Your eyes slam shut again as she drives back inside and sets up a steady rhythm, deep and fulfilling. You arch into her, demanding more, and she pushes two more fingers inside of you.

You snake a hand between your bodies blindly, searching for her wetness. You find it, dripping and scalding hot, and you moan as your fingers slide easily inside.

She establishes a rhythm, steady and hard. There is sweat beading on her back beneath your palm and you scramble for a grip on her slippery skin. Her breath is harsh in your ear, gasping.

You're on the edge, teetering, and you run your hand from her back to her face. Grip her jaw, pull her mouth to yours. Your tongues meet, hot and soft. Then her head snaps back and a keening cry flies from her throat as her body convulses around your fingers. She jerks, her hand twisting roughly inside of you and you follow her over the edge.

_Oh god._

Her head comes to rest on your shoulder, her sweaty hair sticks to your face. She gasps for breath, her heart still beating hard against your own. After a moment she slides her fingers out of you and playfully paints a shaky stripe of wetness on your collar bone. You smile, exhausted.

She doesn't even drag you into the shower, just allows you to fall asleep, sticky and naked in her bed. As you're on the edge of slumber she tugs the sheet up over your bodies and settles against your back, sweeps your hair out the way. A puff of breath, a faint kiss to the back of your neck.

As you drift into a contented sleep, you think you hear her murmur into your shoulder. Sweet, gentle words.

"Thank-you, love."


	11. Chapter 11

_Regina_

You dream.

You're at the table, eating dinner. Henry sits across from you, brings a forkful of food to his mouth. The colors in your dream are dull, muted beiges and greys, the single startling exception being the scalding red of the apples on the table between you.

The door chimes. You stand to answer it. Who would dare interrupt you at dinner?

You open the door and suddenly you are being pushed back into the house by a swarm of people. Mary Margaret Blanchard with the hardness of Snow White. Seven short men. Granny and Ruby, Dr. Hopper and Dr. Whale. And dozens of nameless townspeople, their eyes cold, triumphant.

They shove their way in, no respect for your space. You tell them to go away, to leave you alone, but they push closer. Multiple sets of hands grab your shoulders, push you roughly out the door and down the walk.

Outside on the street there is a chill in the air. Everything is grey – the pavement, the light, their faces. Your beloved apple tree is rooted to the concrete, its branches stretching tall into the night.

They tie you to the tree.

You try to tell them that you've changed. That you're no longer the person you once were. But loud, angry voices list your crimes, drown out your pleas. They form a tight circle with you at the center, their torches sending acrid smoke into the night.

Mary Margaret steps forward and rips an apple from the tree. She holds it close to your face, squeezes. The apple oozes black tar and a putrid, rotten smell fills the air.

"Rotten to the core," she declares, sealing your fate.

David Nolen pushes to the front of the crowd, drawing a sword with the confidence of a king. His face is cold, determined. You realize that he intends to slaughter you with the same dispassion that he used to dispatch animals on his mother's farm. And no one will stop him.

You sink against the tree but there is nowhere to hide. There is no escape. You struggle to keep your eyes open, to meet the end with dignity.

The blade flashes as he raises it above his head, preparing to strike.

And then a small body rushes in front of you, arms outstretched, holding back the crowd.

"Henry!" you gasp, willing him to flee, willing him to be safe. But he stands firm, his small body rigid and determined.

David hesitates, the raised sword wavering in his hand, a flicker of confusion on his face.

A moment later strong feminine fingers grip his forearm, holding him in place. The sheriff is stern and powerful in the grey light, her muted red jacket glistening with drops of rain. Funny, you hadn't even noticed it was raining before, but now you can feel it coming down, hard cold drops against your cheeks, weighing down your eyelashes.

The sheriff says nothing, just extracts the sword forcefully from David's hand and flings it away. The blade skitters along the sidewalk and you wince at the scraping sound.

But the blonde has already dismissed the weapon. She strides towards you, her eyes flashing in the dark. She takes a stance beside Henry and together they face the crowd, a barrier between you and your prosecutors.

The mop regroups, a dense knot of people shooting murderous looks at you over the shoulders of your son and lover. After a moment Granny separates from the crowd, steps forward with a snarl on her face.

"It's coming to an end," she declares. You stare, mesmerized, into her eyes which are suddenly black as the night.

"It's coming to an end, _your majesty_," she spits. "Best be prepared."

You lunge against the ties binding you to the tree, desperate to be free, desperate to stand beside your two protectors. It can't end this way.

And then suddenly you're awake, fighting against the sheet that is twisted around your torso. You cry out, gasp for air. Your panicked fingers claw at the sheets, tear them from your body.

Now free, you collapse back into the pillow with a sob. Your eyes blink rapidly as you try to focus on the ceiling above you, try to separate dream from reality.

Then soft fingers are running across your furrowed brow, wiping away tears that you didn't even know had pooled in your eyes.

"Hey," your lover's voice is soft, soothing. "Regina, it's okay. It was just a dream"

She smooths the hair from your sticky forehead, then claims your hand and plants a kiss to the back of your fingers. She draws your hand to her chest where you can feel her heart beating, strong and steady against your palm.

You take a deep, shaky breath. Your pulse slows, the sweat begins to cool on your skin. Finally you roll onto your side to face her.

Her eyes gaze at you sleepily in the darkness, warm and gentle. Safe.

She smiles, kisses your fingers again and then entwines them with her own.

And you know that it is indeed coming. Your curse is breaking, the world falling apart around you. It could be hours, or it could be weeks or months. But inevitably your curse is going to fail.

You curl into her body, bury your head against her chest. Strong arms wrap around you, holding you close.

And in that moment you know. When the curse breaks, you won't be facing it alone. You will have Henry. And you will have Emma.

This time you're going to win, although your victory will have nothing to do with power or vengeance because this time you truly have something worth fighting for. This time you have love on your side.

This time you will not be broken, you will be whole.

_End_

xxxxxxxx

A/N: If it's true that _evil isn't born, it's made_, then goodness needs to be made as well. And that doesn't happen in an instant. It takes time. I purposefully left Regina here, not fully redeemed but with her feet on the path and her wounds healing. She's got two amazing allies now, so you know she'll get there.

Thanks for reading, and thanks for all your great reviews along the way!


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